Sherlock Holmes and the Ravenclaw Codex
by Pavonis Mons
Summary: A Sherlock Holmes mystery set in Victorian Hogwarts. A valuable artefact has been stolen from Hogwarts School, with a Muggle student the only suspect, and Headmaster Black summons Holmes to retrieve it. But the case is not as clear cut as it first appears
1. Chapter 1 The Red Headed Man

**Chapter One: The Red-Headed Man**

Autumn had come early to London. August was not yet over, but a storm of the most unusual ferocity was sweeping its way through the city, driving all those who had no pressing business outside to the comfort of their own hearth. Holmes had no cases to occupy him, and my old injury from Afghanistan was troubling me, so we were content to remain in companionable silence on either side of a roaring fire in our cosy sitting room in Baker Street, listening to the gale fling handfuls of rain to shatter against the windows and howl in the chimney, and busying ourselves with our landlady's excellent cinnamon toast.

There was a tap on the door.

"A visitor for Mr Holmes," she announced. "A Professor Weaselby."

"The learned gentleman's need must be desperate indeed to bring him out in such vile weather," Holmes remarked, brushing toast crumbs from his dressing gown and setting aside his book. "Very well – show him in."

The young man who entered presented an indefinably odd aspect. He was of no more than middle height, and dressed in a long, shabby travelling cloak that did not match his mud-stained army boots or his ebony and silver swordstick. A veritable bird's nest of bright red hair stood up from his head in wild disarray, framing a broad, freckled face. Nonetheless, his voice when he spoke was cultured and pleasant, despite an underlying note of panic.

"Mr Holmes?" he said. "Though to be sure, I would have known you anywhere – you are the very image of your brother."

"Indeed?" said Holmes. "I confess that you have me at a disadvantage."

"Ah yes… to be sure," said the professor in some confusion. "You would not know me, indeed... but perhaps I should begin at the beginning. My name is Giles Weaselby, and I am authorised on behalf of Hogwarts School to obtain your services in a most desperate matter – robbery, for certain, perhaps even murder!"

An extraordinary change passed over Holmes's face in the course of this short speech.

"Then there is nothing more to be said," he said, in a tone of cold fury I had hardly ever heard him use. "Kindly remove yourself from my rooms, Weaselby, before I take you by the collar and remove you myself!"

"Really, Holmes!" I exclaimed disapprovingly. "Professor Weaselby has come all this way in the middle of a storm to ask your advice. Even if you do not wish to help, there is no need to treat a learned man with such lack of respect!"

"My dear Doctor," Holmes replied in tones of the most ominous calm, "nobody can be more respectful of honourable professional titles earned through many years of hard work and devoted study than myself, but I would scorn to make use of an empty title granted as part of a sinecure. Besides, had this individual come to my door as an honest man should, on foot or even by cab in this weather, he would be dripping wet – and yet, as you see, his shoulders and boots are almost completely dry. Is that not so, _professor_? This man has nothing to say that we could possibly wish to hear. Now be off with you!"

The young man hung his head and made for the door.

"Very well… I had hoped perhaps… the school… but indeed it is too much to ask…"

"A great deal too much," replied Holmes, settling back in his chair and reaching for a treatise on the Plague Rats of Norway. "Shut the door on your way out. I do not bid you good day, sir."

The young professor (if such he was) bowed his head in defeat and turned to leave. Despite the man's obvious concern and distress, Holmes continued to ignore him with the most obdurate and inexplicable persistence. When the door closed to behind the unfortunate Weaselby I turned to my friend.

"For shame, Holmes!" I exclaimed. "I know better than any man the demands your profession makes on your temperament, but this is a step too far. This man has come in great haste from a school – an institution of learning and shelter for the young! – to consult you on a matter of urgency that could not be delayed. And yet you sit there, cool as a cucumber, and send him out into a raging storm without so much as a civil word. You do not even give him a chance to state his case! I confess I am disappointed. In all the years we have known each other, never once have I seen you turn your back on a woman or child in danger, or refuse your aid to the weak and helpless."

Holmes stared at me, fists clenched, mingled astonishment and fury contorting his face into a mask of rage. For a second I thought that he was actually going to strike me. Then his face and fists relaxed and he let out a strangled laugh.

"Truly, Watson, you are my conscience," he said with a wry smile. "You are in the right of it, as ever. Any school, however twisted its principles and unfit its staff, is indeed populated largely by the young and innocent… or at least they can generally claim to be such when they first arrive on the premises. Very well, my dear fellow, the innocent shall not suffer today if I can prevent it. That is to say, I shall give the man responsible for their care a chance to convince me of the rightness of his cause." He strode to the door and flung it open to reveal the quailing figure of the professor crouched by the door, where he had plainly been listening through the keyhole. "You heard all of that, did you not, Weaselby? Very good. You may cease grovelling in that undignified manner and go back to your master. Tell the headmaster that he should know that I do not conduct my business through underlings or intermediaries – if he has anything of significance to say he must come to me in person. Now get up and get out before I lose my patience!"

Weaselby flushed, scrambled to his feet and scuttled away down the stairs. Holmes and I listened in silence to his receding footsteps until we heard the slam of the front door behind him. I risked an enquiring glance at my friend.

He heaved a deep sigh and shrugged.

"Well, Watson," he said, "it seems that our little domestic interlude is at an end. You may as well get your hat and coat and prepare to be off."

"You intend to go, then?" I asked.

"I said nothing of the kind," Holmes retorted. "I merely agreed to listen to the headmaster's story, nothing more – for that school deserves no better from me and my kind. I tell you frankly, Watson, that after this afternoon's interview I find myself sorely ruffled – in need, in short, of the balm that only Mozart can supply. I believe that a very talented young viola player from Prague is playing the Sinfonia Concertante with the first violinist from the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. If we make haste we should arrive before the curtain rises. And we had better make the most of it – if I _do_ agree to undertake this case, it promises to have several features that will make a most sensational addition to your chronicles, but we are unlikely to be at leisure for some time."


	2. Chapter 2 Phineas Nigellus Black

**Chapter Two: Phineas Nigellus Black**

For all his ruthless practicality in daily life, Sherlock Holmes had a remarkable capacity to absorb himself in the music of the great composers. He could abandon himself completely to music, swimming in it with the ease of a seal in water as it washed away all the cares and scars of his work. This evening, however, something was clearly weighing heavily on his mind, and despite the brilliance of the soloists and the magic of Mozart's interweaving melodies, I heard him sigh and shift in his chair at moments where normally he would have been as a man entranced.

When we came out of the concert hall, night had already fallen across London. The rain and wind lashed and howled around us, the streets were deserted and we were most fortunate to secure ourselves a cab. Usually on night time cab-rides it was Holmes's habit to point out scenes of historical criminal enormities, of his own past triumphs, or even malefactors lurking reading to pounce on their next unfortunate victim, but this time he remained silent as we sped through the darkened streets, our vehicle throwing up great sheets of water in its wake.

We arrived at last at Baker Street and let ourselves in. As we divested ourselves of our dripping hats and coats, I saw my friend cast a sidelong glance at the umbrella stand in the hall.

"It is as I thought," he said to himself with a curious mixture of pique and relief, "the fellow has not been here in our absence. Nor will he come, I daresay – I cannot imagine that such a fine gentleman would sully himself by presenting himself in an establishment such as this – no, not even if a crime could be averted as a result!"

Muttering, he ascended the stairs in the direction of our chambers and the whisky decanter. We proceeded into the sitting room, and Holmes was about to throw himself into his accustomed chair when we realised that the reading lamp was lit and we were not alone.

A man was standing in the room. He wore a night-black cassock unrelieved by any ornament, not even the usual white of the clergyman's dog-collar at his throat, and a sumptuous velvet evening cloak, dry as Professor Weaselby's had been, was flung carelessly over the back of a chair. His dark hair, worn rather long for a man of the cloth, was still thick, but heavily streaked with grey around the ears, and with a pronounced widow's peak. A neatly clipped dark beard covered his lips and chin. He was pacing the length of our sitting room, tapping a short ivory stick against his thigh with impatience, and, judging by his sour expression and jerky movements, had been doing so for some little time. At the sound of our footsteps, he turned and came towards us.

"Mr Holmes," he said in a clipped, cultured voice utterly without warmth. "Here you are at last. I am not accustomed to be kept waiting."

"Indeed," said Holmes, in glacial tones that quite matched those of his visitor. "Nor am I accustomed to being waylaid in my own chambers by persons without an invitation. State your business here, if you would be so good. I am a busy man."

The dark man inclined his head. "Then dismiss your companion. I am Phineas Nigellus Black, headmaster of Hogwarts School, I have business to discuss with you – business that is for your ears alone."

Holmes bridled at that. "Out of the question," he snapped. "Doctor Watson here is my friend and confidant. His help has been invaluable to me in many trifling little problems such as yours. If Watson leaves this room then so do you – and incidentally, by dismissing him, you will have put yourself beyond my aid forever."

"Trifling little problems?" exclaimed our visitor. "I would not be here on any mission that was not of the first urgency! Trifling, you say? I say that we are dealing with the theft of a priceless heirloom from our school – possibly at the hands of a Muggle-born pupil – for if not he is not the thief, he is most assuredly the victim of kidnap (or possibly murder), for he has not been seen since the Ravenclaw Codex was taken. What do you say to that, Mr Holmes? Do you consider my problem to be _trifling_ now?"

"No indeed," said Holmes, seating himself in his accustomed chair. "The case, I daresay, is commonplace enough – oh, do be seated, Watson, stop hovering, man, you are giving me a headache! – but in a situation such as this, where the miscarriage of justice is an ever present threat, it would be very wrong of me not to intervene. The good Doctor and I will accompany you to Hogwarts, and I shall do whatever lies in my power to find your pupil – and return your property to you as well, if the thing can be achieved. There is just one question, however, that I must have answered before I agree to depart."

"Name it," was the response.

"Your powers are great. With a mere word or gesture you can change the very fabric of the world, turning fable into fact and memories into the merest nothings. How is it, then, that you require the assistance of such a one as myself, a mortal man utterly without resources save for those which his own poor brain can provide?"

This question seemed to displease our visitor profoundly. "You know why we require your help, I think," he replied curtly.

"I must have it from your own lips, Headmaster, or else I must decline to accompany you. I repeat: Why do you require _my_ assistance?"

"Oh very well, if you must have it," snapped the Headmaster. "Because we have tried to locate the culprit –_ and we have failed!_ We have been driven to ask your assistance as a last resort, in the hope that your skills with the criminals of your own world, will be able to unmask the villain where ours have failed. There, Mr Holmes, does that satisfy you?"

"Admirably," replied Holmes with an air of imperturbable calm.

"Then there remains only your transport to consider. I shall book two first-class tickets on tomorrow's Hogwarts Express. Please to be at King's Cross station tomorrow at nine o'clock sharp. Weaselby will see you to your seats. And now, _gentlemen_, I shall detain you no longer. Good night!"

With that, our visitor flung the heavy folds of his velvet cloak around his shoulders and swept off down the stairs without a backward glance. We heard the outer door slam, followed by a faint crack of thunder.

"Well!" said Holmes, rising once more to his feet, his assumed air of indolence falling from him in an instant once there was no one left to goad. "That's settled. Tomorrow we leave for Scotland! It only remains for us to get our things together. Be sure to pack your service revolver and your medical supplies – that is, of course," this in more hesitant tones, "if you wish to accompany me? It is likely to be an unsettling experience, and may be dangerous."

"My dear fellow," I said sincerely, "while I freely admit that I did not understand one word in three of your conversation with Mr Black, you have never led me wrong before. I would not miss it for the world!"


	3. Chapter 3 Aboard the Hogwarts Express

**Chapter 3: Revelations Aboard the Hogwarts Express**

For all its lamentable effect on my health, my time in Afghanistan had taught me how to pack quickly and efficiently, and within an hour I was all prepared and ready to turn in. The same could not be said for my friend. Although uniquely gifted with a razor-sharp mind, Holmes was extremely lax in his personal habits, and I slept but poorly that night due to the thumps, crashes and curses that issued from next door, as Holmes attempted to muster his possessions for the trip ahead. It was plain that he was expecting our trip to be of some duration.

It seemed that I had barely got my head down before I was awakened by a violent banging at the door.

"Watson!" came Holmes's voice, disgustingly cheery for that early hour, "Don't hang about, man, it's half past five! Our breakfast is on the table, together with a pot of Mrs Hudson's excellent coffee. Make haste, or we will miss our train!"

Despite his late night, Holmes was in excellent humour, and almost before I had the chance to finish the brimming plate that had been sent out for me, he was chivvying me out of the door and into a waiting cab.

"But Holmes," I protested with some heat, as he jumped nimbly into the cab beside me, "our train does not leave until past nine! There is no need for this unseemly haste!"

"No time for that now!" he snapped, as he hurled a small package out of the window into the hands an astounded milkman on his rounds. "Drive on, cabman!"

I would be hard put to say whether the route on which he took us was more remarkable for its strangeness or for its length. As dawn broke over London, we rode from some of the proudest and most majestic streets in Europe, to some of the vilest, most degraded slums to shame the nation, and back again, stopping at irregular intervals for Holmes to leap out of the vehicle, either to post a letter or on some other strange errand. I waited in the cab as he rang on the door of the American Embassy and ran away; stopped outside a grimy, run-down lodging house, where Holmes handed the landlady a bundle of what appeared to be dirty linen, to wait until called for; we paused outside an obscure office in Whitehall as he turned the doormat upside down, and then we proceeded to the fish market at Billingsgate, where he bargained heatedly with several vendors before purchasing a large salmon, which he presented with a flourish to the astonished commissionaire at the door of our next stop – the Ritz.

"Here, mister," said the cabbie, as Holmes sprang once more from the carriage to present a bunch of roses to an elderly charwoman on her way to work, "is this friend o' yours queer in the head, to carry on like that?"

"Queer in the head?" I exclaimed indignantly. "You are in the presence of the greatest detective in the land – Mr Sherlock Holmes!"

"Cor!" exclaimed our driver in tones of deep satisfaction, "Sherlock Holmes! Well, I never! Wait till I tell the lads at the pub about this! Sherlock Holmes – in my cab!" He made no further complaint for the rest of the journey.

We arrived at King's Cross, already somewhat travel-weary, just as the clock was striking nine. Holmes paid the driver a sovereign for his trouble, and he drove away in high good humour, cracking his whip and calling out over his shoulder: "I hope he swings for it, mister!" We had barely a chance to draw breath and gather up our belongings when we were accosted by a wheezing Weaselby, his titian hair sticking up at even more improbable angles than the previous day.

"Where have you _been_?" he gasped. "I had hoped to talk with you about – oh – but now there is no time – we must get you through the gate or you will miss your train! Oh! Why did you not come earlier?"

Gripping each of us by the arm, he steered us not to the usual turnstiles, but through a warren of back rooms, storerooms and deserted offices, to emerge once more into daylight on a bustling platform, where I caught a brief glimpse of a brightly dressed, bustling crowd of people boarding a long train. Something about the scene seemed strangely out of kilter, but before I had a chance to put my finger on what aspect of the prospect disconcerted me so much, the train let off steam with a shriek, and the whole platform was obscured in a whirling mist. Weaselby led us rapidly through the thinning fog to the last first-class carriage and handed us aboard, followed by our luggage. Still, he seemed reluctant to depart.

"Have a good journey," he said. "I hope to have the pleasure of speaking to you again at Hogwarts, Mr Holmes, when you are more at leisure."

"I do not wish to associate with you, Weaselby," retorted my friend. "You are in the pay of Phineas Nigellus Black, and listen to keyholes on his behalf. Good day to you!"

Weaselby looked like he had a good deal to reply to that last comment, but before he had a chance to speak, the guard's whistle blew, and he had barely time to leap clear before the train started to move.

Holmes settled himself in his seat, and stretched his legs out in front of him.

"Well?" I inquired impatiently. "_Now_ will you tell me what all this is about? Where are we going? Who is the mysterious Headmaster? What was the meaning of that ridiculous cab journey? Why were you so abrupt with the unfortunate Weaselby? And most of all, what kind of school calls itself Hogwarts?"

"Not now, Watson," Holmes replied. "This morning's activities have wearied me, and I find myself much in need of a restorative nap. I would recommend that you do the same – we will both stand in need of all our faculties when we arrive at our destination."

And with that, he leaned back, tipped his tweed hat over his eyes and fell into a profound slumber.

I stared at my friend in exasperation. I was burning with curiosity, but many years of association had taught me that no good could possibly come of attempting to wake him at this juncture. I consoled myself by surveying my surroundings. I consider myself something of a connoisseur of trains, having visited almost every part of the British Isles either has Holmes's assistant or on commissions of my own as a physician, but this seemed to be an unusually fine specimen, and I resolved to explore. Our compartment, one of several, all of which were unoccupied, was lit by globe-shaped lamps of an unusual design, with a door leading onto a corridor carpeted in luxurious Chinese rugs into which my boots slipped almost to the ankles. At the end of the corridor was a heavy, brass-bound door, which, much to my disappointment was locked, as was the door at the other end of the compartment.

Disappointed, I returned to our compartment, where, although Holmes remained obdurately asleep, I found much to console me in the view that was speeding past outside our window. We had left the grimy centre of London behind us, and were now passing through some of the city's trimmer and more pleasing suburbs. Soon even these petered out, and we were travelling through the rolling farmland of the Home Counties, interspersed with clumps of trees weighed down with the last dark green leaves of summer. The storm had blown itself out at last, and a weak, watery sunshine pervaded the landscape. I watched the scene in delight for a while, but the warm sunshine and gentle motion of the train began to have their effect on me also. I felt my eyelids grow heavy, and fell at last into an uneasy slumber.

I woke some hours later, as our train was passing through Durham, to find Holmes watching me.

"Well, Watson," he said, "I see you have been exploring our noble conveyance. Have you found anything to our advantage?"

I knew a trick worth several of that, however.

"The pile on the rug showed you where I had walked, and no doubt I left some fingerprints on the door handle," I replied impatiently. "And if you have been there you will also know that I found nothing of any use. Why, I could not even get into the next carriage along! But never mind that! Where are we going, and what the devil will we find when we get there?"

Holmes sighed, seeming uncharacteristically reluctant to explain himself.

"Then I must begin at the beginning," he said. "It will take some time – are you quite comfortable? Would you care for a smoke before we begin? Is the light shining in your eyes? – shall I pull down the blinds? Would you care for one of Mrs Watson's beef dripping sandwiches? Or perhaps some bottled beer?"

"Holmes, for pity's sake!" I exclaimed.

"Forgive me, old friend," he said sadly. "I have merely been attempting to postpone the evil moment. Very well then, let us begin with the story of my brother."

"Mycroft?" I exclaimed. "You mean that Mycroft is embroiled in this mystery too?"

"Not Mycroft," replied Holmes softly, "or at least not directly. The story begins with our late elder brother, Marchmont."


	4. Chapter 4 Marchmont Holmes

**Chapter Four: Marchmont Holmes**

My friend Sherlock Holmes, though charming enough and even gregarious when the fit was on him, was intensely reserved in his private life, and although I understood Holmes as well as any man living, I knew almost nothing of his family background or early life. To be sure, I had met his elder brother Mycroft on one or two occasions, all related to Holmes's occupation, but for the rest, they might have both fallen from the sky or hatched from an egg for all I knew to the contrary. The news of this new bereavement left me stunned.

"Your late brother?" I said. "My dear fellow, I am so sorry – I had no idea!"

"Don't concern yourself, Watson," said Holmes with what was no doubt mean to be an airy wave of the hand, though it faltered somewhat in mid-stroke. "You need have no fear – there is no danger of my giving way to my feelings. To be sure, my grief at the time was intense, and I have few reasons to remember the time that followed with any great affection, but since Marchmont died when I was nine years of age, I hope you will not think me deficient in human warmth if I do not appear to suffer unduly _now_."

"In that case," I said after a pause, "I would like very much to hear more about him."

"Very well," Holmes continued. "My people, as you know, were county squires, living in one of the remoter parts of Worcestershire. My mother, who was something of an invalid, gave birth to three sons at widely spaced intervals. Mycroft, as you know, is seven years my senior, and Marchmont was three years older again.

"Marchmont had all the attributes that should have fitted him for an easy path in life – good looks, engaging manners, a brain that was keen without being over-strung as Mycroft's and mine are, an easy-going, affable nature that made all about him his friend, and a talent for sports. My parents delighted in him, and I am told that my father's grief as Marchmont left for prep school for the first time was a sight to behold. At school he continued to excel, delighting tutors, sports masters and fellow-pupils alike.

"Then, early one summer, a fortnight after his eleventh birthday, the letter came."

Holmes paused ominously at this point.

"What letter?" I asked. "Was your brother being threatened by some sinister outsider, or even blackmailed? But surely not – what possible reason could anyone have to menace such a fine, upstanding young chap?"

Holmes gave a dry smile.

"I see that you have become tarnished by your association with me, Watson," he said. "I will admit that I have seen many shocking things in the course of a long career, but never the blackmail of an eleven-year-old schoolboy! Indeed, at the time, Marchmont seemed delighted to get that letter. It was from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He had been accepted as a pupil there, and was instructed, without so much as a by-your-leave, to report to an address in London at the end of August, after which his schooling in magic would commence.

"Marchmont, as I said, was delighted, but my parents had their reservations. They were country people, unaccustomed to the big city. They would have hesitated to send their promising son off alone to London at such a young age, let alone to a school they had never seen in the far north of the country, in the care of people they had never met."

"You mean to say that your parents – people of some education and considerable means – were seriously contemplating sending their first-born son to a school for fakirs and _conjurers_?" I exclaimed in horror. "Deplorable! You astound me!"

"Do not underestimate the power of wizards, Watson!" my friend hissed with a vehemence I had not heard since he had dispatched the villainous Moriarty. "You may not see them every day; you many never see them or feel their presence; they may never have hurt a hair on your head, but they are present nonetheless – a secret, highly organised, ruthless power that lurks deep in the shadows of our everyday world. Oh, _they_ will tell you that they bear our kind no ill will – that they would never attack unprovoked – but they guard their secrecy with a ferocity that it is hard for us to comprehend, and if that secrecy is threatened, then they will snuff out your memories, or even your life, with less compunction than you would blow out a candle. No, Watson, those who ran Hogwarts School were no mere conjurers or jugglers, but real, potent magicians. They had spotted the seeds of magical talent in Marchmont, and made up their minds that he was a wizard too. All that remained was for him to take his rightful place among them.

"My parents, as I said, were initially most resistant to the notion. Much to Marchmont's chagrin, the first letter was left unanswered. More letters followed, some clutched in the talons of a huge bird of prey, others drifting from the sky or blasted from an unlit fireplace in a cloud of steam. This was disconcerting enough for my parents, but I think they might have held out for some time but for the change in Marchmont himself. It was only to be expected, perhaps – tell even the most amiable eleven-year-old schoolboy that he may have talents of the more arcane sort, and there can only be one result. The luminous cattle my parents were able to dismiss as a mishap with a chemistry set; the singing umbrella stand as mere servants' tittle-tattle; but when he levitated the vicar in the middle of an overlong sermon it was plain that something had to be done. At last Marchmont got his wish, and at the end of that summer he took the train for London."

With some difficulty I found my voice.

"And that was the end of the matter?" I croaked. "Did you ever see your brother again?"

"Oh many times," replied Holmes. "Wizards are fierce and ruthless in protection of their secret, but like many predators, they have a certain tenderness towards their young. And so it was with Marchmont. Although it was made plain to him at school that he would do much better to remain there during the holidays, the better to absorb the manners and customs of the wizarding world, his affectionate nature would never allow him to abandon his family. I saw him for part of the holidays every summer and most Christmases, and there is no doubt that he brought life and cheer to a house that sometimes seemed decidedly lacking in both. I remember his visits as great festivals and holidays – he would show me his schoolbooks, full of the most incredible diagrams and illuminated in scarlet and gold leaf – and he always brought me the most marvellous sweets and toys, each with a tale behind it better than anything told by the brothers Grimm. He was even permitted – as special concession – to attend our mother's funeral when she died of a chill some four or five years later.

"In the meantime, Mycroft and I grew up in the old house, and while Mycroft's indolence and my fits of uncontrolled curiosity were far more of a trial to our parents than Marchmont's carefree good nature, we filled at least in part the gap that he had left. In time Mycroft went away to school, and we were troubled by no mysterious letters for him. A few years after that, Marchmont finished school and was permitted to stay on at Hogwarts, to train as a junior sports master of some kind. He continued to write and visit, and all seemed well with him. Then one day, shortly before I was due to start school in my turn, the visitor came.

"I had been outside, investigating a break-in. The dairymaid swore that gypsies were responsible for the massacre in the hencoop, but I had found a hole in the wire and clawed footprints that strongly suggested a member of the weasel family. With a tracing of the evidence in my hand I approached the library, where I hoped to find evidence in the encyclopaedia to prove my hypothesis, but before I had touched the door handle I heard an anguished cry from my father: 'Sweet Christ, no! Marchmont! My son!' before he burst into agonised sobs.

"There was somebody else in the room. I could hear him pacing to and fro, urging my father to control himself – to no avail. His voice took on an increasingly threatening tone, and finally I heard it raised in an incantation. There was a flash of white light and a crash and my father felt silent. I had just the wit to conceal myself before the man swept out of the office, tucking his wand into the pocket of his cloak. Hidden as I was, I only caught a glimpse of him in the hall mirror, but that glimpse was enough, for I had seen that stern, implacable face before in Marchmont's photograph album. It was his old history master, Phineas Nigellus Black.

"My first concern was for my father. I rushed through the open study door to find him lying insensible on the floor. The footmen carried him to bed while the doctor was sent for. The doctor could find very little physically wrong with him and prescribed complete rest. I was banished from the sickroom until the evening before I was due to depart for school, when I was allowed a brief visit. The room was all in darkness, and my father had barely the strength to raise his head. Tears poured down his cheeks as he whispered to me that my brother was dead, but when I asked him which brother and how it had come about, he could recall nothing whatsoever, and soon became so agitated that I was ordered out of the room.

"To this day I do not know if I am more relieved or sorry that I was not present for most of the two years that followed. Suffice it to say that my father never recovered his memory of what had happened to Marchmont, and the loss tormented him. All his efforts to contact the school failed, no registry office in Scotland held so much as a scrap of proof that Marchmont had ever existed, and such provincial law enforcement agencies as existed in those days were even more ineffectual than our friend Lestrade. At last, in desperation, he turned to supernatural means, but being effectively excluded from those who actually knew something of these matters, he soon fell into the hands of the worst kinds of charlatans – spiritualists, stage wizards, mediums, tricksters… To anyone who claimed to know what had become of my brother, however obviously fraudulent, he would give anything at all. The house was full of the basest kind of impostors while his estate fell to rack and ruin around him and his friends and servants deserted him. His death, when it came some two years later, came as a relief not only himself but to those who cared for him and remembered what he had once been.

"Only Mycroft and I were present at the funeral, and it was then that I told him of Black's visit and the probable consequences. As we stood over our father's grave, we swore that we would find those responsible and – if ever we could – bring them to account. You might ask, Watson, how two mere boys hoped to succeed where our father had failed. We knew that we could never hope to defeat them by magic, and we dared not attempt a direct approach, so we decided to approach the problem by deduction and reasoning – for there we excel, but wizards are weak.

"And so we carried on with what remained of our lives. Luckily our education was provided for in our mother's will, otherwise we might have found ourselves in difficulties – for our father's money was all gone, and no magical letter ever came for either of us. Mycroft and I finished school and university, came to London and commenced living by our wits. Most of my time was devoted to my life's work, the study and practice of detection, but I kept my eyes and ears open, and I learned much. Bound as they are by their iron code of secrecy, no wizard would ever openly betray himself to one not of his own kind, but I remembered Marchmont's tales from school, and traces of such incidents could often not be completely hidden from me. And – much as with the criminal fraternity – there are weak links in even the strongest chain. Still, for all that, I had not been knowingly addressed by another wizard in all those years until the so-called professor Weaselby appeared in our chambers the day before yesterday."

"Holmes, my dear fellow!" I cried, aghast. "This is monstrous! Despicable! And what do you mean to do now? For you have surely delivered yourself into the hands of a most powerful and implacable enemy!"

"I do not fear them," Holmes replied. "They have magic at their command, to be sure, but their brains are feeble. Gifted as they are with powers that can change the fabric of the earth to suit their whims, the higher skills of analysis and deduction are of little account to them – and there lies their great weakness. What I mean to do can be simply stated. I mean to discover the manner of my brother's death. And then, if necessary, I mean to bring the person or persons responsible to justice."


	5. Chapter 5 Hogwarts School of Wizardry

**Chapter Five: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**

The journey did not seem unduly long, for no traveller could ever weary of a journey through the majestic Highland region of Scotland, jewel of her Majesty's northern dominions. Still, by the time we reached our final destination, a small, unremarkable station which went by the somewhat incongruous name of Hogsmeade, the shadows were already beginning to lengthen, and the first chill of evening could be felt in the air as we alighted.

Just as we were leaving the station, before we even had a chance to look around, a familiar voice hailed us, and we turned to see Weaselby coming towards us. He was wearing a cassock similar to that his of employer, but patched and darned, and with a well-worn tweed cloak flung over it. Either the change in attire or the benefits of his native air appeared to have made him far more at ease. He greeted us cheerfully, ignoring Holmes's surly retort, and carried our luggage to a small cart, drawn by a horse so deeply muffled against the mild chill in the air that it was practically invisible. Once he had handed us aboard he clucked at the horse and we set off up a winding track away from the village and up into the hills.

"Where are we bound?" I asked our guide. "Will we reach there before it gets dark?"

"Not far at all!" he said cheerfully. "It is just around the next corner – there!" he exclaimed as we rounded the corner and a huge grey castle rose up in front of our eyes, its tall, pointed turrets overlooking the dark waters of a long, narrow lake. "Is that not fine? Have you ever seen anything so splendid? Poor fellow! I don't suppose you ever have," he added to himself in an undertone.

In truth I had seen several equally splendid prospects over several continents – the Swiss alps, the Taj Mahal and of course Buckingham Palace, which I had been privileged to visit once with Holmes at the conclusion of the Case of the Beefeater's Nightgown, which, sadly, cannot be revealed to the world at large. However, I had no wish to antagonise a man who might well prove to be our only ally in the investigation ahead, and as Holmes was sunk deep in the most profound gloom, I agreed enthusiastically that it was indeed a magnificent spectacle.

We drove up a winding carriage-drive and drew up outside a wide stone portal in the Gothic taste, where we alighted and Weaselby consigned our luggage to the care of the caretaker, Goyle, an ugly, hulking fellow with a wall eye. He then ushered us through the main entrance into a fine, arched hallway.

"Are you quite recovered from your journey?" he enquired of Holmes in an ingratiating manner. "We have hot water and towels put aside for you, if you should wish to freshen up after your long day."

"No time for that!" snapped my companion. "We are here on a mission of analysis and deduction, not some frivolous social engagement! We will review the scene of the crime, if you please – and be quick about it! Precious hours – days for all I know – have already been lost!"

"But the Headmaster…" Weaselby protested.

"The Headmaster may go to the Devil for all I care," retorted Holmes. "I am not his servant, but a practitioner and instrument of justice – and if you wish to see this case come to a satisfactory conclusion, Weaselby, you will do as you're told!"

Chastened, Weaselby led us along a veritable labyrinth of winding corridors and unsafe-looking staircases, arriving at last at an oak-bound door. It opened as we approached, and a skinny young girl in a voluminous blue robe walked out. She stared at us in amazement, until, at a gentle reprimand from our guide, she scuttled off with many a backward look, leaving the door ajar behind her.

Weasley paused here, running his fingers through his untidy ginger locks. Abruptly he seemed to come to a decision.

"Quick, then," he hissed, "up the stair – third landing, a stained glass window, a blue door and a fireplace…" and with that he raced up the stairs and was soon out of sight.

Holmes and I followed rather more slowly, for the stairs were steep and full of odd turnings and corners. Nonetheless, after a few minutes and several wrong turnings, we had found the little landing with its blue curtain and stained glass window, and dimly illuminated by a fire that was burning merrily (if unseasonally) in an old-fashioned grate opposite. Weaselby, who was waiting for us by the curtain, started at our approach, smiled ingratiatingly at Holmes and twitched the curtain aside, revealing a set of wrought-iron bars of great complexity and beauty, save around the lock, which had plainly been forced.

"You had better work quickly!" he said in an undertone, "the Headmaster -"

"… has given strict orders that our guests should be welcomed below stairs before they were permitted into any of the Houses!" came a grim voice from behind us. "I trust, Weaselby, that you have an _excellent _reason for disobeying me!" I turned to see Phineas Nigellus Black, who appeared to be striding towards us out of the fireplace, his stern features set in a look of the deepest disapproval. Weaselby hung his head, blushing like an overgrown schoolboy. I waited to see what retort Holmes would think up this time, but none came, and when I attempted to catch his eye I saw that his head was held lower even than that of Weaselby, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground.

"Holmes!" I hissed at him, for Black had turned his gaze from the unfortunate Weaselby, and had fixed my companion with a look of cold fury that would have unnerved many lesser men.

My companion's urbanity returned in an instant.

"A thousand pardons, Headmaster!" he said smoothly. "I do beg your pardon – I was observing your boots and got quite carried away. Extraordinary, are they not, Watson? No headmaster in _our_ world could boast footwear half so fine."

"Charming," I said faintly, since some comment was clearly called for, though in truth I considered the long, curling toes rather vulgar, and the violet-coloured fancy-work would never have been tolerated in any decent London club.

The beginnings of a self-satisfied smile played briefly about the Headmaster's lips before his face settled once more into its mask of fixed disapproval.

"Indeed, Mr Holmes," he said. "There are many wonders here that you and those like you have never seen. Indeed, I would be astonished if you had… however, I really must insist that you descend and cleanse yourself before the evening meal. We keep punctual hours here, and I am sure you would not wish to create the impression among the staff and students of Hogwarts school that your people are in any way slovenly. I shall expect you shortly. Show them downstairs, Weaselby!"

We trooped in silence down the narrow stairwell, Holmes deeply lost in his own thoughts and Weaselby apparently too mortified to speak. It was not until we were crossing the great entrance hall once more that the silence was broken – not by any of us, but by the caretaker, Goyle, who was standing there with his mop and bucket, seemingly in wait for us.

"So it's you," he said with a sneer. "I know who you are - poking and prying into the affairs of decent folk! Well, look all you want, Mr Busybody Holmes! You'll never find him!"

And with that he turned and strode away from us, his sinister laughter echoing from the vaulted ceiling.

TO BE CONTINUED


	6. Chapter 6 The Sorting Hat of Hogwarts

**Chapter 6: The Sorting Hat of Hogwarts**

"Well, Watson," said Holmes, as he shook water from his hands and dried them on the thick towel placed beside the silver basin, "what do you think of our hosts? A fine pair, are they not, Black and Weaselby? One all ice and spiteful dignity, the other all fuzzy sentiment with no bottom! A pretty pair of guardians for the young!" he added, flinging the towel to the table in disgust. "I am not a marrying man, Watson, but if ever I were to take such a step, I would never entrust the fruits of that hypothetical union to such men as that!"

"To be sure," I replied. "Still… I had a teacher rather like Weaselby at prep school – Mr Anstruther, or Waffles as we called him – dear old Waffles, with his mint humbugs and his funny, old-fashioned clothes! He was very absent-minded and rather deaf, but he was every boy's friend and all the chaps were devoted to him. And then there was the principal of my old school, Old Lucifer we called him – Dr Lucas, he taught Latin to the upper school boys. Oh, he was a holy terror! I loathed and feared that man, and yet sometimes I wonder if I would ever never have made it to medical school without his relentless persecution."

"Charming," replied Holmes, not without irony, "yet, I fancy, you will see far more that is unfamiliar to you over supper. And I beg of you, keep your reminiscences of your schooldays to yourself! Our kind hosts would take such comparisons very ill, and I have no wish you carry you back to Baker Street in the form of a toad! Now let us be on our way. We must not keep our most _amiable_ hosts waiting!"

Weaselby was waiting for us outside, dressed in a marginally less shabby version of the afternoon's costume. He started in dismay at Holmes's immaculate evening dress and my neat tweed suit.

"Don't you have anything… longer?" he asked.

"I beg your pardon?" I enquired.

"More concealing," said Weaselby, blushing. "That is to say… longer in the hem…"

"Pay no attention," said Holmes, "his type go to formal dinner dressed in robes. Where we come from, Weaselby, skirts are women's wear. But I dare say I have a dressing gown or something of that sort in my luggage…"

"Not at all," said Weaselby resignedly. "Though what the Headmaster will say I don't know… Come with me, if you please – sherry – the staffroom…"

We followed Weaselby to a small room off the entrance hall, where a liveried servant handed us glasses of sherry. Phineas Nigellus Black, after glaring in silent fury for several seconds at the knees of our trousers, led us over and introduced us to three out of the four house-masters and mistresses: Professor Drummond of Gryffindor House, a brawny, barrel-chested gentleman in prime of life, with a mane of glossy chestnut hair, a full beard and a deep, booming voice; Professor Blenkinsop of Hufflepuff, a tall, slender lady of mature years with a benevolent expression; and Professor O'Connell of Slytherin House, a slight, neat man, younger than his fellows, clean-shaven, with a pointed face and a pair of marvellously penetrating light grey eyes. Also present were the school matron, the librarian and a junior history master, Binns by name, a gangling young fellow already stopped and dusty beyond his years, who was acting head of Ravenclaw House in place of Professor Llewellyn, absent following a death in the family. His introductions completed, Black imperiously ordered my friend over to a quiet corner. Holmes caught my eye and gestured that I should accompany them.

"No doubt, Mr Holmes," began Black in his usual clipped and frosty tones, "you are anxious to hear the task for which I have _hired_ you." He laid a stress that I found offensive on the word "hired", but at a sign from Holmes I held my peace. "I have chosen you for this singular honour because, as a Muggle yourself, you are the best fitted to apprehend of your own kind. Your task can be simply stated. The Ravenclaw Codex was taken from its resting place in Ravenclaw tower three nights ago under cover of darkness. The lock of the room was forced, as was the lock of the chest in which the Codex lay – proof, you must agree, of Muggle involvement – for no true wizard would ever resort to such _physical _means. If any further confirmation were needed, a Muggle-born student of Ravenclaw House, Godfrey Easingwold, disappeared under mysterious circumstances on the night that the Codex was taken. Your duties are simple enough. I wish you to recover the Ravenclaw Codex by any means possible, and, if your powers stretch so far, to lay your hands on the villain who took it. Now, if you please, we must make haste. Dinner is at seven-thirty sharp, and I detest inpunctuality above all things."

"Headmaster!" called Holmes to his retreating back, loud enough that the other occupants of the room stared at us. "It is vital that we understand each other fully. Am I to understand that I am to spare no pains to apprehend the culprit, whatever the cost?"

Black turned briefly to glare at Holmes.

"You have your instructions, Mr Holmes," he said. "I await the results of your investigation at your earliest convenience."

Holmes bowed, and fell into line behind the teachers as they filed into the Great Hall.

As I passed through the doorway and looked up, I was unable to suppress a gasp of delight. Nothing in this grim barn of a building had prepared me for the glories of Hogwarts Great Hall: a noble, pillared chamber, its ceiling supported by mighty granite columns carved with strange devices; its walls hung with brightly coloured tapestries worked with designs of fabulous beasts. Most wondrous of all was the ceiling, which had been painted with the most painstaking detail into an exact facsimile of a starry night sky, so lifelike that I would have been prepared to swear that I saw one star twinkle at me. No doubt when full this magnificent hall was full of life and bustle, but now it felt strangely empty, with all the tables pushed back against the walls save two, one for students, of whom there were a score or so, robed in various colours, and one for staff.

I found myself seated at the end of the staff table, at some distance from Holmes, with Professor O'Connell and Professor Binns as my only neighbours. Although the food was delicious, if slightly old-fashioned for my taste, the conversation of my dinner companions was something of a trial. Binns, being appallingly shy, had nothing to contribute to a discussion on any subject save his own, and he sat spooning soup into his mouth in gloomy silence. O'Connell, on the other hand, was a charming and lively conversationalist who took a great interest in Holmes, myself and all our doings. Unfortunately, this all too often took the form of questions which, while never straying over the bounds of social acceptability, were nonetheless plainly aiming to uncover more about Holmes, his past life and his methods than my friend would have wished him to know, and I found myself giving increasingly short and evasive answers, until I hit upon the happy expedient of asking Professor Binns if he could tell me anything about the Ravenclaw Codex. Binns proved only too happy to oblige, and I found myself subjected to a veritable deluge of information. O'Connell raised his glass to me with a wry shrug, and turned to his companion on his other side, while I listened.

Binns's diatribe continued throughout the rest of the meal. I will abridge it here, for I found his slow, hesitant manner of speech, digressions and obsession with detail wearisome in the extreme, even knowing as I did that the matter under discussion was of the utmost importance to our quest.

The Ravenclaw Codex, it appeared, was a relic of one of the four founders of Hogwarts, a lady of uncommon wisdom and learning named Rowena Ravenclaw. In the last years of her life, this good lady, fearing that her knowledge would be lost to the world, decided to commit the greater part of her learning to parchment. The Codex was a great volume of the finest vellum and dragon-hide, cunningly illuminated and inscribed with magical inks in the tongues of men, giants and other creatures too strange to name. Rowena Ravenclaw stinted nothing in its creation, for the Codex was to be her great inheritance, passed down to her heirs from generation to generation as long as her line might last. However, for all her great scholarship, Rowena Ravenclaw had been somewhat chaotic in her private life (I will not weary the reader with the interminable genealogical details with which Binns regaled me over the sweet course). Bitter disputes broke out among her descendents over who was the rightful heir to the Codex, and over the next few generations, the wealth and power of the Ravenclaw clan was dissipated in a series of acrimonious lawsuits. In the end it was decreed that Hogwarts School would take custody of the Codex until such time as the rightful heir could be found, and it had remained at Hogwarts ever since, reverently enshrined in an inner room of Ravenclaw house. From time to time visitors would come to gaze upon it, or scholars to copy a page or two, but in the main it was left undisturbed, waiting for the lost heir to come and reclaim it.

A sharp rap on the table finally brought an end to Binns's interminable maunderings, and I looked up to see Headmaster Black on his feet, gesturing for silence, as the sound of singing drifted from the direction of the staffroom.

"As all those assembled here should know," he proclaimed, "at night all guests at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry must sleep in the guest rooms of their House. Custom immemorial dictates that any guests who were not fortunate enough to attend this school in their youth must be Sorted before they are permitted to stay within these walls. These are desperate times, and require desperate measures. One can only hope that our guests are suitably grateful for the honour, even if their background precludes…" Professor Blenkinsop jabbed him sharply in the ribs at this point, causing him to break off abruptly. However, he quickly recovered, and, gesturing behind him, proclaimed: "Behold! The Sorting Hat!"

The singing had ceased I turned to see Professor Drummond coming towards us, in his hands as battered and disreputable an old hat as I had ever laid eyes on. I could see that Holmes, on the other side of the table, was itching to get his hands on it, but before he had a chance, Drummond walked up to where I was sitting, and, without a word of explanation, dumped the hat on my head, enveloping me in fusty darkness.

To my astonishment, from within the folds of the Hat came a low voice.

_Hmmm… _it said. _A more mature specimen… well, I do like a challenge, and this one is a real snorter, no mistake! Let's see now… not much in the way of guile, to be sure… but an educated man, a good brain…loyal as the day is long, proved many times over… and the heart of a lion… been in action as well, I see… Interesting, now… so hard to choose… what's it to be? _

"What need is there to choose?" I exclaimed impatiently. "I came to help Holmes see that justice is done, and when that's done I'll go back to my life in London. I'm here to see fair play and Holmes safely out of this place – that's all I want!"

_Then there's nothing more to be said,_ came the voice. _Only one place for you, that's certain: HUFFLEPUFF!_

This last came in a shout that left my ears ringing, and at the same moment cheers and clapping broke out from the students' table. Drummond whipped the Hat from my head and, before Holmes had a chance to protest, dropped it in turn over his head. This time the Hat had barely touched Holmes's hair before it cried out again, in a voice that shook the Great Hall: _RAVENCLAW!_

Holmes lifted the Hat cautiously from his head. It lay inert in his hands as he turned it over carefully in his long fingers.

"I should very much like to examine this hat when I am more at leisure," he said. "I fancy I might learn a great deal from it. With your leave, of course, Mr Drummond."

I saw a sneer of pure disgust pass over the Headmaster's face at these words, quickly suppressed as he snatched the hat out of Holmes's hands. "If you please, Mr Holmes," he began, "you have been hired to perform a task, and the quicker you can complete it, the sooner you can leave, and the happier both of us will be. Now, it is getting late, nothing else can be accomplished this evening, and if you would be so good…"

I felt a tug at my sleeve, and turned to find a group of half a dozen boys and girls in yellow robes clustered around me.

"I say," said the boy who had tugged my sleeve, a ruddy-cheeked fellow of perhaps twelve with frank blue eyes and curly hair, "you must be Doctor Watson! My pater has read all your stories in the _Strand_ magazine! And the Hat chose you to stay in _our house_ too! Ain't it prime? Would you like to stay in my dormitory?"

"Stow it, Stebbins!" called out one of the older boys, a personable youth with dark eyes and a great beak of a nose, who strode up to me and shook me heartily by the hand. "You mustn't mind him, sir, he's a good fellow at heart, just a little excitable. He just means to welcome you to our House – and I'm sure he speaks for all of us there!"

The others nodded eagerly in agreement. These, I discovered, were some of the Muggle students of Hufflepuff house, who had elected to remain at school over the summer holidays. They were a cheerful, engaging lot, eager to welcome me to their cellar, and would, if I had allowed it, have organised enough picnics and treats for me to keep me occupied for a week. Still, however charming my new acquaintances might be, I had a duty to perform, and I looked over to see how Holmes was getting on.

He was standing silently next to three students in blue, two girls and a boy, all in an attitude of the profoundest unease. I remembered belatedly that Holmes had had little experience of children of any kind, let alone those of a magical bent. Still, the evening bell was ringing and it was now quite dark: plainly nothing more could be done that day, and it remained only to find our guest quarters and refresh ourselves for the morrow. For all that, the glance Holmes shot me as my new friends led me away to my quarters in Hufflepuff House was as near to helpless as I had ever seen him, and I wondered inwardly how he would fare in these new surroundings.

END OF PART 1

TO BE CONTINUED


	7. Chapter 7 The Codex Chamber

**PART TWO: THE HUNT BEGINS**

**Chapter Seven: The Codex Chamber**

In many years of acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, I can count but a handful of occasions on which I had seen my friend at a disadvantage. It was therefore with a certain ill-natured complacency in my superior powers with the young that I case my eyes around the Great Hall of Hogwarts for my friend as I entered the following morning.

My own evening had been delightful. My young companions, picked by the Sorting Hat for their sense of fair play and amicable dispositions, had made me most welcome in their common room. Once they overcame their initial shyness they had been charming company: young Stebbins had insisted on showing me his beagle, after which I had had to admire Violet Parker's owl, and Bob McGuire's toad. All the children were full of stories of their exploits and adventures, ranging from the kind of small grievances and japes I remembered from my own schooldays, to others so fantastical that, in any other place than Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I would have considered them a case for an alienist.

It was with some surprise, therefore, that I saw Holmes enter the Great Hall, flanked by the three youngsters from Ravenclaw House and apparently in the best of spirits.

"Ah, Watson," he said, sliding into the seat opposite me and helping himself to kedgeree and mushrooms, "there you are at last! Well, you have been an age getting up and about your business – but no matter. First, let me present to you Miss Hawkes, an accomplished player on the violoncello, " (gesturing to a tall young lady in blue to his right, who blushed deeply), "Mr Lucas, who has taught me a great deal about the theory and practice of magic, " (a plump boy of about fifteen in horn-rimmed spectacles clutching a book, who looked most gratified), "and Miss Robinson, who has a gift for mathematics, and shows unusual promise in the game of chess" (the skinny girl of twelve or so standing between them, whose pinched face was wreathed in smiles at the unexpected compliment). "As for you, Watson, I see you have enjoyed your time and found much pleasure in your company. Tell me, my friend, are they trustworthy?"

"Trustworthy?" I exclaimed. "Why, they were hand-picked by the Sorting Hat for that very quality! A charming set of young people – I would recommend any of them without reserve!"

"That is well," replied my friend, "for if matters fall out as I expect, we may have need of their help before our work here is done – a sort of Hogwarts Irregulars, if you like…"

"Oh, sir!" cried young Stebbins, unable to keep silent any longer. "I should like that above all things!"

"Well," said Holmes, "we shall see. In the mean time, time presses, and we have work to do. Ah, Weaselby, at last!" he called. "Come, man, don't dawdle! I have already spoken to the Headmaster. Although he may feel he has more_ pressing_ school matters to attend to, despite his peremptory summons the other day, and he has refused me even the briefest personal interview, pleading pressure of work, he has graciously given me his permission to inspect the Chamber of the Codex and consult any students or staff who can throw light on the problem. Once Watson here has finished his breakfast, we shall repair to the Chamber of the Codex and begin our investigation. I believe you know the way?"

And so it was that five minutes later we found ourselves in the same chamber we had visited briefly the previous evening.

I had seen Holmes at work before, but I knew that Weaselby had not, so I was fully prepared to reassure him, as I had reassured many others, while Holmes flung himself about the room like a man possessed, magnifying glass in one hand, tape measure in the other, sniffing the air at crucial points in his search, like a thoroughbred bloodhound hot on a scent. However, to my surprise, Holmes merely stooped to examine the floor, sniffed once, straightened up with a look of considerable surprise on his face, ran his finger along the mantelpiece and examined it with a grimace.

"Well," he said, "the headmaster has made it very plain that he has no desire to see _me_, but when _you _are next in his presence, Weaselby, do compliment him on the efficiency of his cleaning staff. It really is the completest thing – I don't recall ever seeing a scene of such importance rendered so completely clear of any trace of a clue in such a short time." Weaselby looked distressed at this news, at which Holmes brightened considerably. "Well, well, we must make the best of it, that's all. The loss of a vital piece of evidence in our case is hardly an obstacle to _us, _eh, Watson? In any case, I don't suppose that this extraordinary scrupulousness has extended to the landing!"

With that, he shoved his way past Weaselby and began quartering the little landing outside the Chamber with a calm fixity of purpose that showed me very clearly that my friend was on the track of something that interested him greatly. The area by the fireplace seemed to hold a particular fascination for him, as did the wall and skirting board by the doorframe of the Chamber. At last he pulled himself up to his full height once more, dusting off the knees of his trousers.

"Well," he said with a smile, "all is not lost. The floor is quite hopeless, of course – all traces of footprints have been obliterated since yesterday – but the skirting board shows some promise, and the traces of rather heavily scented hair cream on the wall just by the door are particularly indicative. You have already observed, no doubt, the position of the chest. It would be possible to stand just _here_" (indicating the spot) "outside the chamber, to watch the chest being opened, maintaining eye contact at all times, without ever having the need to cross the threshold.Indeed, that reminds me," he continued, "there is still the chest in which the Codex was stored. Dare I hope that it has been left in its original condition, or have the cleaning staff tampered with that too?"

"No, indeed," stuttered Weaselby, still obviously upset at the earlier setback. "They know their place better than _that, _to be sure: they would never presume to touch it. And as to the destruction of such vital evidence, I will report the matter to the caretaker, and the – ahem – creature will be soundly whipped, you may rest assured!"

"_Whipped?_" I exclaimed in horror. "There is no need for that! We are not in the Dark Ages, sir!"

"I can only concur," said Weaselby with a sigh. "But I am very much afraid that they will insist on it, alas! In any case, you may be quite certain that they have left the chest as they found it. Please, do examine it, if you feel it would be the slightest assistance!"

Holmes strode over to the casket, examining it minutely with his lens.

"First, observe the state of the lock," he said. "Whatever your respected Headmaster may think, no professional would have tackled it in this manner. This lock may be heavily warded against all manner of spells, but had _I_ wished to relieve Hogwarts of the Codex, I would have picked the lock using a simple hairpin, no more. I would never have considered a crowbar, for it is a bulky object that is hard to explain away, and the noise of splintering wood" (Weaselby winced at the idea) "might well have attracted the attention of passers by, especially in the dead of night. Note also no less than three shallow notches beside the main break – practice cuts, weak and indecisive. No doubt the fellow was summoning his resolve for the final blow. No, there is no doubt at all – whoever did this was the rankest amateur, and may well have been acting under duress."

He placed both hands on the lid of the casket and pulled upwards. The lid opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges, to reveal a richly embroidered length of cloth of gold, and on top of that a large bag of the softest velvet. Holmes shook both of these, examined the fabric carefully, then folded both of them and returned them to the casket.

"There," he continued. "Fine material, and, you will observe, neatly folded – I might almost say reverently folded. You may set your mind at rest on this at least, Weaselby: whatever the motive behind the theft, there was no attempt at desecration. The Codex is safe and sound, wherever it may be."

"But where is it?" I asked "And where is the thief? Who is the thief?"

"As to that," replied Holmes, "we have been _instructed_ that the most probable culprit is Godfrey Easingwold, of Ravenclaw House. While I decline – as always – to draw my conclusions to order, I believe we might still learn something from a visit to his quarters, since we are already on the premises."

Weaselby led us up two more flights of stairs, through a low, oak door into a room furnished with three four-poster beds, of which only one was made up, four bookshelves, four desks and all the usual paraphernalia of a school dormitory. What set it apart from all other school dormitories of my experience, however, was its preternatural cleanliness and orderliness, quite unlike the normal residence of any schoolboy I had ever met.

Holmes glanced briefly around the room, looking irritated, but not particularly surprised.

"It seems that your cleaners have beaten us to it once again," he said. "Never mind. Perhaps his desk will cast some light on young Easingwold's disappearance."

With that, he turned his attention to the only desk that showed any signs of recent occupation, turning over the books, dismembering the blotter, sniffing at the inkwell and rummaging through the racks of quills and parchment, before turning his attention to the desk drawers. Suddenly he took a leather purse from the bottom drawer and flung it on the table, spilling out silver and bronze coins, as well as two that appeared to be made of gold.

"Intriguing!" he said. "Easingwold was singularly ill prepared for his journey – a man fleeing the school with his ill-gotten gains might not pause to collect his cloak," he gestured at the black school cloak hanging from a peg behind the door, "but he would hardly leave without his money!"

"Not necessarily," said Weaselby. "This is all Wizarding money. If he wished to hide himself among the Muggles (saving your presence) he would have no need of Wizarding silver – not even for the train, if he had bought his ticket in advance."

"True," said Holmes, "and if that were all, you would be correct. But how do you explain this?"

He took a second purse from the same drawer, and opened it to reveal the contents. I saw quantities of our good English pounds, shillings and pence, all marked with the familiar head of Queen Victoria.

"So," he continued, "there you have it. Easingwold left in the middle of the night, in foul weather, without his cloak and without his money. He did not take the train, for an unaccompanied, panic-stricken student at such a late hour would have been noticed and reported. He will not have got far."

"But where can he be?" asked Weaselby, clasping his hands with impatience and anxiety. "And where is the Codex? And, above all, where is the villain who took it?"

Holmes looked searchingly at the young professor.

"Your Headmaster," he said at last, choosing his words with care, "would have us believe that Master Godfrey Easingwold is the only possible culprit. Am I to take it from what you have just said that you do not share that learned gentleman's opinion?"

This time, Weaselby did not flinch under Holmes's penetrating gaze.

"I am not a fool, Mr Holmes," he said quietly. "I have watched you at work and listened to your questions, and it is plain to me that you are far from convinced of the case against poor Godfrey. Indeed, I would rejoice to see him exonerated, for he was as promising a student as I have ever taught – did you know that he was a strong candidate for Head Boy? The Codex must be returned to Hogwarts, of course it must, for it is a part of our history, but it is more important to see justice done. I know you have little reason to think well of me after the unfortunate manner of our meeting. But I am not the Headmaster's puppet, Mr Holmes, and no spy either. If you require my aid to clear Godfrey and bring the guilty to justice, then I am your man, whatever it takes!"

There was an oddly touching dignity to Weaselby at that moment, despite his nervous, ragamuffin air, wild hair and mended clothes. Holmes, I am sure, sensed it too, for he reached over and clapped Weaselby on the back.

"Well, well!" he said. "I hope it will not come to that, to be sure, but it is a noble offer and I thank you for it! But we must not get ahead of ourselves. Our next task must be to speak to young Easingwold's teachers. Time may well be of the essence, so we will double up. Watson, who knows my methods as well as any man alive, will take Professors Drummond and Blenkinsop; I shall speak to Binns, since he is the nearest thing Ravenclaw has at present to a Head of House, and to Professor O'Connell. Can you see to that, Weaselby?"

"Gladly!" said Weaselby, and rushed off eagerly down the stairs.

"But Holmes," I protested, once I had made sure we were alone, "I thought you said that Godfrey Easingwold was innocent! Why, then, are we still on his trail? Would it not make more sense to go after the true villain of the piece?"

"I do not believe that he is guilty," my friend replied. "But Godfrey Easingwold is inextricably bound up in this case, and, by following his trail we will be led to the Codex, as surely as if he had drawn us a map with his own hands. Now let us get to work, Watson – too much valuable time has been wasted already, and there is not a moment to be lost!"

TO BE CONTINUED


	8. Chapter 8 The Housemasters

**Chapter Eight: The Housemasters**

Past experience had taught me that when my friend Sherlock Holmes was hot on the trail of a villain, he could be most exacting in his demands, so when I arrived at the Charms classroom fully fifteen minutes after our appointed hour, I fully expected a dressing down. However, the droning voice of Professor Binns from within was all I needed to tell me that my friend was still engaged, and I settled down on a carved bench to wait.

Minutes passed, and I began to run out of patience. When the great clock in the hallway struck twelve, I pushed open the door, to find Binns still in full spate as Holmes paced up and down the room in a state of the highest impatience.

"Well, Watson, here you are at last!" he exclaimed, interrupting Binns in the middle of what appeared to be a long diatribe on the correct classification of various illegal spell types. "I've been waiting for you this age." He turned to Professor Binns. "Well, Binns, I am sorry to say that Watson here is a man of choleric temperament and detests being kept waiting – our little chat has been very pleasant indeed, but we must terminate it if we hope to avoid an outburst… yes, very good, that's the way," he continued, as he took the professor by the shoulders, put him out of the door and slammed home the bolt behind him.

"What have you discovered?" I asked. "Is the mystery any clearer? Are you any closer to identifying the culprit?"

"Clearer?" said Holmes, "I doubt it. Between that slippery fellow O'Connell, with his insinuating questions, evasive answers and knowing looks, and that appalling windbag Binns, (and how such a tedious, puling creature as _that _can ever have been accepted into the noble house of Ravenclaw I am a loss to understand!) I think it is fair to say that I have rarely spent a more trying morning. O'Connell told me practically nothing, though I fancy he got even less out of me. Binns, on the other hand, has told me a great deal – and almost none of it of the slightest value. I can only hope, old friend, that your enquiries were more successful than mine."

In truth, although my morning had been considerably more pleasant, I hesitated to call it profitable. I had spoken first to Professor Drummond, head of Gryffindor house, a bearded, stout bull of a man with a firm handshake and a forthright manner, who turned out, rather to my surprise, to be the botany master. Botany, it seemed, took a much more aggressive and dangerous form in the magical world, and some of Drummond's tales of plants he had subdued in the far-flung travels of his youth and brought back to study in Hogwarts made my blood run cold. He was equally fascinated by my time in India and Afghanistan as an army surgeon, and, had we been differently placed, we could cheerfully have exchanged reminiscences all day. Unfortunately, he had little to say on the subject of Godfrey Easingwold beyond what everyone knew: that he was the son of a rich antiquarian bookseller, a clever boy, a model pupil and a prefect, much liked by teachers and pupils alike. Moreover, it quickly became clear that it would have been materially impossible for Professor Drummond to have seen anything of value on the night the Codex was taken, being entirely taken up with the search for ingredients for a potion for a malady he knew only by the unlikely name of "Dragon Pox", several students in Slytherin House having fallen prey to this painful and irritating illness. This was confirmed in due course by my next visitor.

Professor Blenkinsop of Hufflepuff house, an ethereal-looking lady of middle years, had greeted me with a sweet smile, saying: "You have quite enthralled my young charges, Dr Watson – but I trust you did not keep them up too late yesterday evening? A good night's rest is so important for the growing mind." I confessed that I had perhaps not adhered strictly to regulations in that regard, but that my pleasure in conversation with her young charges must be my excuse. From there the conversation turned to Dragon Pox and thence to medical matters: she was the school chemistry mistress, and had much to say on the subject of healing potions and lotions in the wizarding world (the greater part of her lore proved unworkable outside a magical environment, but a couple of her herbal tisanes were to play an invaluable role in reviving the flagging fortunes of my practice), and before I knew it the best part of an hour had passed. Unfortunately, she had very little to add to my knowledge of Godfrey Easingwold, for although he had done as well in her lessons as all the others, his interests lay more in the practice of pure magic. However, she did volunteer the information that Godfrey was much admired in her House for his team spirit: he was a member of several sports teams and had been picked to compete in a magical Triathalon of sorts that was to be held in France the following year.

"Poor stuff, but I did little better," said Holmes at the end of my account. "O'Connell spoke volumes in the lad's praise – he might almost have been writing his obituary – but he could tell us nothing of the slightest relevance, and I'm sure he knew it. And then the wretched Binns subjected me to the most tedious lecture on the subject of historical criminals and magical law that I have ever heard – the most dismal stuff imaginable, Watson, you can't conceive! But for your timely arrival, I might well have had to resort to violence."

"I believe you," I said with feeling. "And yet, was there nothing of value in what he said? You are dealing with magical criminals – surely the magical law that was set up to deal with them has some relevance? Or perhaps he has been spirited away by some vile incantation unknown to the world at large?"

"Don't be absurd," Holmes began in a peevish tone, but his words trailed off, and he stood motionless for a full minute before smiting his forehead violently with the palm of his hand. "Great Scott, Watson, what a bungler I am! I deserve to be sent back to school myself, and set to write lines for such a blunder! Of course! We have him now, the wretch, and no mistake!"

"Splendid!" I exclaimed. "I shall enjoy seeing Headmaster Black's face – to think that he ever doubted your abilities! So what now? Do we call the police? Or do we take the villain into custody ourselves?"

"The police?" said Holmes. "No, I think not. I know how the business was done – and a filthy trick it was, too – but we still lack the final proof. For that, we still require one more piece of evidence. Curse these provincial boarding schools! If we were in London – or if I could lay my hands on a good dog with a nose for a scent – I could bring this case to a satisfactory conclusion within a day. As it is…"

"But we do have a dog!" I interrupted him. "Stebbins' beagle! You saw this morning at breakfast how eager he was to assist you."

"Good thinking, Watson!" said my friend. "We could use his help – yes, perhaps we will establish a Hogwarts Irregulars in truth – that would be one in the eye for friend Black, to be sure. But now we must make haste – lunch is served at half past twelve, and the Headmaster detests impunctuality. We would not wish to seem in any way _slovenly,_ eh, Watson?"

We found Weaselby waiting for us in the corridor. As he led us towards the Great Hall through Hogwarts' maze of corridors, he quizzed us earnestly about our mission, and expressed delight that Holmes had made such good progress. In the entrance hall, we came upon the caretaker, Goyle, mopping the floor. He shot Holmes a look of concentrated malevolence, turned his back on us and was about to slink off when Holmes hailed him:

"Goyle! A word with you, if you please!"

Plainly, Goyle would have given much to ignore Holmes entirely, but this was further than he could go in the presence of a Hogwarts teacher. He reluctantly turned to face my friend, who, to my surprise, addressed him in a firm but distinctly cordial tone.

"Listen to me carefully, Goyle," said Holmes. "There is something we need to discuss. I believe you have conceived some very wrong notions with regard to our purpose here, and so have come to believe – naturally, perhaps, considering what took place at our last meeting – that I am your enemy. I would urge you to think again, for what you know could be of vital use to our investigation. You are shielding a person you believe to be innocent, and, while you have broken no law, you will find, if you carry on in this way, that you have made yourself some powerful enemies. Whatever your former life might have been, you have acted honourably, and it would grieve me to see you come to harm as a result. So I must ask you, man to man: _Where is he?_"

Goyle swallowed, visibly affected. He stared at the ground for a long time, before looking Holmes in the eye and slowly shaking his head. Holmes sighed resignedly.

"Then matters must fall as they will," he said. "That is all: you may go."

Goyle nodded once, took to his heels and fled.

TO BE CONTINUED


	9. Chapter 9 The Forbidden Forest

**Chapter Nine: The Forbidden Forest**

Lunch was a cold collation, with staff and students sitting wherever they pleased, so Holmes and I soon found ourselves at the centre of a huddle of potential recruits for the Hogwarts Irregulars, all eager to help my friend's enquiry in any way they could. As was his habit when hot on the scent, Holmes took no nourishment, the better (he said) to concentrate his mind, and by the time I had finished a generous portion of cold brisket, oatcakes and salad, he had whittled down the group that was to accompany us to four: Jeremy Stebbins, the boy with the beagle; the biggest and brawniest of the Hufflepuffs, Alfred Kettleburn by name; the oldest remaining Ravenclaw, Alice Hawkes; and the youngest, Lizzie Robinson. The others were instructed to keep the teachers and the main rooms of Hogwarts under close observation, and to send off an owl with a message (wizards, it appears, used owls in much the same way as our own armed forces use carrier pigeons) at the first sight of anything sinister.

"Watson," said Holmes, once matters were settled to his satisfaction, and I was approaching the end of a generous portion of splendid gooseberry fool, "be a good fellow and make you sure you bring your medical kit this afternoon. It might be a good idea to have your service revolver handy as well."

"Medical kit?" I exclaimed. "Service revolver? For pity's sake, Holmes! There will be children present! Surely you cannot wish to involve these delightful young people in some sort of armed conflict? Whatever happened to protecting the innocent?"

"Really, Watson," said my friend with a laugh, "what do you take me for? I am far more concerned about ministering to the sick – should the need arise, naturally. You forget where we are! Even if I wished to start an altercation – which I assure you I do not – these children are possessed of remarkable powers: the smallest and meekest among them is quite capable of defending himself at need, and some of the rest… well, it is best not to speculate. As to the revolver, there is some tolerably wild territory in the grounds of this school, and we will have to be cautious, since _we _possess no such powers. Oh, and you would oblige me greatly by bringing along any old clothes you might happen to have in your luggage – one never knows. We will meet outside the main entrance in ten minutes' time."

Ten minutes later, as I stepped out of the gloom of the entrance hall, clutching a heavy Gladstone bag, I could barely restrain a gasp of delight. This was my first proper view of the grounds, and I found myself gazing out over a most delightful prospect. It was a fine day, and the still air – strangely untroubled by the midges that blight the unwary traveller in the majestic Highland region of Scotland – was full of the scents of summer flowers and newly mown hay. To our left were the formal gardens, where roses and beds of sweet herbs bloomed in orderly squares, filling the warm air with their sweetness, and beyond the rose gardens rose a series of dazzling fairy-tale castles of glass, behind whose crystalline walls faint shapes could be discerned thrashing about: Professor Drummond's greenhouses. To our right a green sward led down to what appeared to be a sports pitch marked out in white, with two triple sets of hoops elevated at an improbable height above the ground, and beyond that the still blue waters of Hogwarts Lake, glittering in the sunlight, lay wrapped in the arms of the looming hills that towered above us on all sides. On the far side of the sports pitch were further lawns and outbuildings, together with a series of paddocks in which creatures I could not quite identify gambolled and frisked in the gentle breeze that was blowing off the lake, and beyond that again lay a dark and surprisingly sombre belt of woodland.

Holmes was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, together with the four Hogwarts Irregulars and Stebbins's beagle (an amiable but rather excitable creature that answered to Porthos) on a leash.

"There you are, my dear fellow," he called up to me. "Step lively: you don't want to miss a moment of this! Now, here we are, doggy – what d'you make of this, then?" He held a dark cloak to the quivering nose of the little dog, which gave a series of eager yaps, cast about a couple of times and then headed off at breakneck speed in the direction of the woods, dragging Stebbins in his wake.

"Come along!" cried Holmes, as he broke into a run, "after them, as quick as you can – and don't let them out of your sight, not for an instant! The game's afoot! Tally ho!"

We hurried after them, past the sports pitch, past the store sheds and byres, past the paddocks with their curious occupants, never pausing for an instant until we reached the skirts of the woodland, where Stebbins came to an abrupt halt, with Porthos still straining at the end of his lead.

"Well?" enquired Holmes. "Has the trail gone cold? Porthos seems eager enough."

"No, sir," replied Stebbins. "He's keen as mustard – but, oh, sir, this is the Forbidden Forest! We can't go in here – it's not allowed! And there are _things_ in here!"

"Things, eh?" said Holmes thoughtfully. "Well now, this puts a different complexion on the matter, to be sure. Watson and I have given the Headmaster our word that we will recover the Codex, no matter what the cost, but of course that does not apply to any of you. It is my belief that you would do better to return to the castle. You need have no fear for our safety: Watson here has his trusty revolver, and although I am unarmed, I am a student of the Japanese art of Baritsu, and capable of a trick or two that would surprise you very much if you could see them, magical though you may be."

The children exchanged only the briefest of glances.

"I don't think you understand, Mr Holmes," said Alice Hawkes. "We have to come with you. Godfrey is _a member of Ravenclaw House_!"

"And don't think you're leaving us behind!" interjected Alfred Kettleburn. "That's not the Hufflepuff way. Isn't that right, Jeremy?" Stebbins and Lizzie Robinson both nodded vigorously in agreement.

"I see," said Holmes after a short pause. "Then it would appear that there is nothing more to be said. On we go, then, but we must stick close together at all times, and keep our eyes peeled for any hint of danger. Watson, I think now would be a good time to draw your revolver. Very well, Stebbins, let him go, but don't let Porthos get too far ahead of the rest of us."

I took my revolver in my hand and made sure it was cocked and ready for action. Behind me I heard a soft voice say "wands out". Stebbins released his hold on the dog, which made its way straight down the path that led into the gloomy woods.

No country in the world can provide more delightful country rambles than Scotland on a fine summer's day, and our first few minutes in the Forbidden Forest were no exception. The trees, a pleasing mix of native and foreign species, were interspersed with sunlit glades where wild flowers and grasses grew in lush profusion, and for the first few minutes I found myself wondering if the sinister reputation of the place was not simply another of Professor Black's many eccentricities. However, as we penetrated further into the forest and turned from one twisting side-trail into another, the trees seemed to close in and crowd out God's clean light and air, the glades with their lush grasses and flowers were replaced with stands of rank weeds and brambles and then disappeared altogether, and even the birds fell silent. A little further again, and I began to fancy that I could discern strange, dark shapes flitting in the corner of my vision, not man-sized and altogether the wrong shape, and lights were to be glimpsed in the gloom, some like lanterns, others more like giant, luminous eyes. I began to hear things too: whispers and hoarse breathing at the very edge of my hearing, the sound of a twig snapping underfoot, or the sigh of a breeze where no breeze could have penetrated. Whether Holmes was aware of this I cannot say, but more than once I heard one of our young companions pause in their tracks and mutter an incantation.

"Holmes," I whispered. "This is an uncanny place! Was it wise to come here in such company? What if we are all spirited away by some frightful apparition?"

"My dear doctor," my friend replied, "I had no notion that you might be prey to such lurid imaginings! You may set your heart at rest – Porthos here is hot on the scent – there, look at him go! – and I fancy the end is nearly in sight… aha!"

Porthos had taken a final turning down a goat-track into a narrow dell, and was straining at the leash, whining in his impatience, his nose pointing towards the end of the valley, at the far end of which the two walls of the dell drew together to form a cave leading back into the wall of rock. My heart was in my mouth as we crossed the last few yards of sandy soil and peered into the mouth of the cavern. In the darkness, a bulky figure was moving about. My finger tightened on the trigger of my revolver, and little Lizzie Robinson's wand sent out a jet of sparks that went wide of their target and hit the wall, giving just enough illumination to show that the moving shape was of more or less human proportions.

Holmes stepped between the students and the cowering figure.

"That's enough of that," he said sternly. "We must not fire upon an unarmed man before we are sure of our target! As for you," he raised his voice and addressed the cowering figure in the cave, "we are six, and armed with both wands and a revolver. My advice to you is to give yourself up before one of my companions becomes carried away in his enthusiasm."

The figure stood up, slowly and with an effort, revealing himself to be a tall young man with a shock of fair hair, and a frank, open face, not ill-looking despite its ghastly pallor, the dreadful rash that disfigured it, and the fact that he was plainly in the grip of a high fever. He was wrapped in a filthy blanket, and clutched a large bundle to his chest with shaking hands.

"Do not shoot, sir," he said in a feeble voice, "for I am at your mercy. I am the unhappy Godfrey Easingwold."

With these words, his strength failed him and he fell to the ground in a swoon.

TO BE CONTINUED


	10. Chapter 10 Easingwold's Confession

**Chapter Ten: The Confession of Godfrey Easingwold**

I knelt beside the stricken youth as he lay stretched out on the ground. His fever, clammy skin and the lesions on his hands, face and neck were all familiar to me after years of domestic practice. None should have been serious in itself: the real damage was the result of nervous strain and lack of proper medical care.

"Holmes," I said, "this young man has the chicken pox!"

Holmes was at my side in an instant.

"Chicken pox?" he said. "Are you certain? Might it not be something more sinister? Not some rare poisoning or obscure magical malady – dragon pox, perhaps?"

"Well,_ they_ may call it dragon pox if they like," I said with some asperity, "but I have been a doctor long enough to know chicken pox when I see it, or so I should hope – a more severe attack than most, as you might expect in an adult, and exacerbated by poor conditions and neglect, but that is all – observe the pattern of lesions, the mixture of new blisters and older scabs… Really, Holmes, I do wish you would curb these absurd fancies of yours!"

"My dear Watson, a thousand apologies!" replied my friend. "I meant no reflection on your medical knowledge, I assure you. I merely wished to ascertain whether he might be safely moved."

"Certainly he should be moved," I said. "This young man should be in the infirmary, not sleeping out of doors in all weathers. I suggest we see about getting him there at once."

"I was thinking more of London," came the reply.

"London?" I said in astonishment. "You cannot be serious, Holmes! This young man is seriously ill. What, expose him to the rigours of a train journey when there is a warm bed and expert (if unorthodox) assistance practically within hailing distance?"

"My dear fellow," said Holmes with a smile, "your laudable concern for your patient has once again blinded you to the wider implications of the case. Young Master Easingwold has made Hogwarts altogether too hot to hold him for the present, and although I have every confidence that I will be able to set matters right soon enough, I really could not answer for his safety at present. You have not considered this!"

He reached over the prone body of the invalid for the blanket-wrapped package the young man had let fall in his swoon. Holding the bundle as tenderly as a mother would an infant, Holmes peeled away the enveloping layers of cloth to reveal a large tome of considerable antiquity, bound in dark red leather, heavily gilded and studded with gems.

Alice Hawkes gave a gasp of horror.

"So it's true," she whispered. "The Ravenclaw Codex! I would never have believed it possible. Oh, Godfrey, what have you done?"

"It's all right, Alice," came a faint voice from behind us, where young Easingwold, still deathly pale, was struggling to sit up. "It will be a relief, in a way. I deserve to be punished for stealing the Codex, and heaven knows I'm not cut out for the life of a fugitive. If only I'd had the guts to own up before I had to drag anyone else into this mess!" He turned to face Holmes. "Well, sir, you have found me out at last. Take me to the authorities – I only regret that it has taken so long." He held out his hands to Holmes, his face a study in apprehension as he awaited the cold steel clasp of handcuffs about his wrists. Little Lizzie Robinson gave a wail and burst into tears.

"Don't be a fool, Easingwold," said Holmes, but not unkindly. "I would sooner send a lamb into a lions' den than hand you over to the tender mercies of Phineas Nigellus Black. Do not be alarmed – you are among friends. I am Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, and my associate here is the estimable Doctor John H. Watson. Pray have the goodness to remain exactly where you are, and not to exert yourself in any way, while the good Doctor examines you, and your classmates and I discuss the best way to ensure your safety."

"But Mr Holmes – the Codex!" exclaimed the invalid. "I took it – there can be no mistake, indeed, I remember it all to clearly, alas!"

"You may leave the Codex to me," my friend replied firmly. "Both you and it are in safe hands now. I know all. You have been most shamefully used, and you may rest assured that the culprit will be exposed, and justice done! But first I really must insist that you allow the good Doctor to give you a thorough examination. You have a long journey ahead of you."

In truth, I had little more to learn from a further examination, but since this seemed the only effective way to pacify the agitated youth, I did as I was bid, while Holmes put the Hogwarts Irregulars to work. By the time I had finished my examination and made up such medicines as I had to hand, they had found enough wood to make a fire, and had got Easingwold out of his filthy school robes and dressed like a Christian in tweed trousers and a Norfolk jacket from my luggage, with the old black cloak that had brought us to the spot wrapped round his shoulders for warmth.

"Well now, Mr Easingwold" said Holmes, once we were all settled round the blaze, "it wants fully two hours until the Hogwarts Night Mail is scheduled to depart, and you have at most half an hour's walk ahead of you, even in your weakened state. Mr Kettleburn, who is strong enough to assist you in case of need, will accompany you, together with Miss Robinson, who is a native of the Seven Dials and can help with cabs and the like at the far end. And now I think we would all very much like to hear an exact account of the events of three nights ago. Be sure to omit nothing – the more detail you include, the better equipped I will be to clear your name."

"Indeed, you are too good," replied the grateful youth. "I shall tell you all I know, though I know full well that my case is hopeless. It will not be a long tale."

"Then proceed," said my friend, filling his pipe as he stretched his long legs out toward the fire.

"As senior Ravenclaw Prefect, it is my duty to make sure that all the lights are out in the tower at bedtime, and the outer doors locked. I had spent all that evening in my dormitory, with a fascinating book on the movement of Jupiter's moons. I was so engrossed that I lost track of the time, and as a result I was somewhat later on my rounds than usual – perhaps half past eleven. All was well in the dormitories, and all my classmates were fast asleep, so I descended the staircase to check that the main door to the rest of the school was secure – we have had some problems with Gryffindors recently, and Professor Llewellyn is most particular about keeping that door locked."

"And was it locked that night?" enquired Holmes.

"I never reached it," replied Easingwold. "I was not halfway down the stairs before a most extraordinary feeling came over me. I do not know how to describe it – at first it was like a marvellous dream, a delightful sensation – like drifting through warm, scented mist. At first it was no more than that, but before a minute had passed I found myself in the grip of what I can only describe as a mania. You will think me a fool or a liar, Mr Holmes, but I swear to you by all I hold dear that at that moment I was convinced that the Ravenclaw Codex was mine by right – and more than that – that I must have it that instant!"

"Just a moment," Holmes interrupted him. "You never reached the door, you say? Were you above or below the Codex chamber by that point?"

"Below," came the reply, "but I was back at the chamber quickly enough, to my shame. Oh, a part of me knew that I was doing wrong, but I was like a man possessed, and seeing the door to the Codex chamber standing ajar like that, with even a tool at hand to force the chest open… well, it proved too much for me. When the crowbar was actually in my hand the wrongness of it hit me, and there was a struggle… but it was short-lived, and before too long I gave in, foolish, blind wretch that I was! A second's work with the crowbar, and the Codex was in my hands. A sudden dread came upon me then, and I fled, dropping my wand as I ran. The next thing I knew, I found myself wandering in the school grounds. It was dark, the rain was pelting down around me and a bitter wind was blowing from the lake. The madness left me then, and the enormity of what I had just done hit me. I knew I had committed an unforgivable crime – something that would put me beyond the pale of wizarding society for the rest of my days. I am not ashamed to say that I put my head in my hands and wept, for I knew that I must leave Hogwarts behind me forever."

He paused at this point, overcome, and I observed the faces of his classmates. Both Stebbins and Lizzie wore expressions of mingled shock and disgust, but Kettleburn's fists were clenched, fury and pity written in every line of his face, and Miss Hawkes was pale and shaking, tears standing in her eyes.

"Dear me!" exclaimed my friend. "Such remorse, such melodrama! But really, my dear Easingwold – surely you do not still believe that you are anything other than an innocent victim in this whole sorry affair? I confess I am disappointed – your teachers spoke favourably of your intelligence."

"For pity's sake, Holmes!" I cried in exasperation. "Poor Easingwold has been through the most frightful ordeal! He is sick and in a state of pitiable anxiety. If you have any information that will set his mind at rest, pray do so at once! This is no time for your games."

"I do beg your pardon," said Holmes. "Pray excuse my levity, Easingwold – my remark was singularly ill-timed. However, it is not necessary for _me_ to say any more – Miss Hawkes and Kettleburn have both seen the truth of the matter, I fancy. Perhaps one of you will enlighten the others."

"The Imperius curse!" hissed Miss Hawkes in a fierce, appalled whisper. "The _fiend_!"

"Indeed," my friend continued, "the Imperius curse – a vile spell that makes a puppet out of the strongest and best of men, depriving the victim of his free will. A man in the grip of the Imperius curse, Watson, would slay his own mother, or betray that which he held most dear in all the world. Even wizards shun this magic – and with good reason."

Godfrey Easingwold stared at us in astonishment.

"The Imperius curse!" he gasped. "Of course! What a fool I have been! God bless you, Mr Holmes – I can look the world in the face once again!" He hid his face in his hands once more, overwhelmed with emotion.

"Well now," said Holmes, smiling, "do not allow yourself to be overcome just yet. You have still to relate how you came to the Forbidden Forest, and who provided you with food and blankets. Something to do with the caretaker Goyle, if I am not much mistaken."

"Mr Holmes, you are a miracle worker!" young Easingwold exclaimed. "It is exactly as you say. One of my uncles is a lawyer, and before I was chosen for Hogwarts he had hopes that that I would follow him into his profession. He would often take me to court to listen to his speeches, and it was there that I first saw poor Goyle, sitting in the dock with a gang of petty thieves. You can imagine my surprise when I came back from my third year summer holidays to find that he was Hogwarts's new caretaker! Still, I did not betray his secret, and for that reason he has always had a kindness for me…"

"My dear young man, whatever were you thinking of?" I exclaimed. "A known criminal, a felon, permitted to roam a school at will? Scandalous!"

"I have another uncle, sir, a clergyman who works in the slums of the East End," said Easingwold gravely, "and he taught me that no man can fall so low that he does not deserve a chance to rise once more. So the Good Book tells us, Doctor Watson, and so I believe. In any case, Goyle is a good fellow at heart, though his manners are unpolished, and it was he who came to my aid when I believed all was lost. He stumbled on me as I sat despairing in the rain, and he saw the Codex in my bag, but he just called me a young fool, got me to my feet and took me to this cave, where he keeps his beer and pipe. He had planned to return the next day with a train ticket south, but when he came I had a high fever and had come out in spots, and he did not dare to move me. Whatever his past, he has been good to me, bringing me food and hot soup from the kitchens every day until your arrival, at which point he had to stop for fear of discovery, for he knew that Mr Holmes suspected him."

"Very good," said Holmes, "and very much as I had expected. You will need to rest before you set off on your journey, but before that, you would oblige me greatly by clearing up one final point. It is generally believed that for the Imperius to be fully effective, the subject must be within the caster's line of sight. I understand, of course, that once under the Imperius curse, your memories of your surroundings would be vague at best, but can you remember meeting anybody on the stairs?"

"Not a soul, Mr Holmes," answered Easingwold. "Everyone in the tower was asleep apart from myself."

"Think carefully, now!" urged Holmes. "Are you certain that you saw no-one?"

"Not a soul," replied the youth earnestly. "I could swear to it."

"Not the stair? Then the common room, perhaps? A dormitory? The Codex Chamber itself? Or one of the landings?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Easingwold. "The landing – by the Codex Chamber! I was inside the Chamber, trying to fight off the urge to open the chest, and I looked up – there was a man standing in the doorway! He was hooded and cloaked, quite tall I think, but he dodged out of the way when he saw me looking. He had a wand in his hand… but I was too busy with my inner conflict to pay attention."

"That's our man, without a doubt!" cried Holmes, springing to his feet. "Did you recognise him? Would you know him again?"

"But, Mr Holmes," the young man replied, "I could not see his face."

TO BE CONTINUED


	11. Chapter 11 Priori Incantatem

**Chapter Eleven: **_**Priori Incantatem**_

"Well, young Stebbins," I said as the four of us who had remained at Hogwarts trudged up the grassy slope towards the castle in the hazy afternoon sunlight, "what a fine nose your pet has! To follow the trail of a man who fled in the middle of a rainstorm four days previously – I would not have believed it if I had not witnessed it with my own eyes!"

"Really, Watson," said Holmes, still in high good humour, "Porthos is an excellent beast (aren't you, doggy?), but you give him more credit than is his due in this case, for what you suggest is materially impossible for any animal, magical or otherwise. No, the cloak was not Easingwold's but Goyle's. The man meant well, and it seems likely that he has genuinely turned over a new leaf, but he is a numbskull of the first order – by defying me in that ludicrous manner yesterday, he brought himself to my attention when he would have done much better to keep out of my sight, considering that our last encounter ended with him in the dock. It was clear that he was sheltering a fugitive, and since Goyle's partners in crime were generally good, straightforward, mundane London thieves of the type that would hardly go unnoticed in a school such as this, that fugitive could only be one person. Goyle was always deplorably careless with his belongings (that was his downfall last time), and laying hands on an article of his clothing was child's play.

"Well, you're still a good boy, aren't you Porthos?" said Stebbins, affectionately ruffling the beagle's ears. "And I think Goyle was an absolute brick to look after old Godfrey like that – he deserves a second chance!"

"What Iwould like to know, Mr Holmes," said Miss Hawkes, "is why we are not bringing the Codex back to the castle, after all the trouble we went to find it."

"The Codex will return to Hogwarts in due time, you may rest assured of that," my friend replied. "It is merely taking a slightly more circuitous route, the better to ensure the safety of the innocent. I trust, Miss Hawkes, that you have no objection to that?"

"None in the least," replied Miss Hawkes, blushing becomingly.

"And what _I _would like to know," I interrupted, "is the identity of the hooded figure at the door of the Chamber, for he was surely the malefactor himself! I wonder who it could have been? There are several members of staff we have not spoken to at any length, not to mention one or two of the older boys. And what of the mysterious, missing Professor Llewellyn? His absence at the crucial time is most suspicious. Might he not be the culprit?"

To my surprise, Holmes, Miss Hawkes and Stebbins all burst into peals of laughter.

"Tut, tut, Watson," said my friend at last, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, "you have not been paying attention! Professor Llewellyn is a woman – an elderly lady of refined habits and impeccable connections (not that that is any guarantee against criminality, to be sure), who has a name at Hogwarts as something of a peacemaker, suffers from asthma, is considerably below average height, teaches what passes for classics at Hogwarts and returns today from five days' compassionate leave to attend the funeral of her grandson, who was mauled by a wild beast."

"Indeed?" I said, somewhat nettled, "and you deduced all that from a cast-off pen-wiper, or abandoned slipper, no doubt – or did you break into the poor woman's study while our hosts' backs were turned?"

"Nothing of the kind," replied Holmes imperturbably, "I merely consulted a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ (the wizards' newspaper): the obituary column was, as ever, an invaluable source of information. For the rest, Nelson Lucas of Ravenclaw is a talented amateur photographer, and has captured several excellent likenesses; the rest was easily ascertained through tea and conversation with the delightful students of Ravenclaw House. And in answer to your original question, I know exactly who the criminal is. The precise manner of his exposure will depend on the results of my next interview with Professor Black, but exposed he will be – you have my word. Now, let us make haste – the hour for dinner is almost upon us, and it would be a shame to keep the Headmaster waiting amid all his other troubles. Onward and upward, my friends! Excelsior!"

And with that, he strode off up the hill towards the castle.

We arrived back at the castle barely five minutes before the evening meal. Stebbins and Miss Hawkins dashed at once to the end of the queue of students lining up outside the Great Hall, while Holmes and I headed for the anteroom where the staff were accustomed to take their sherry before dinner.

We were greeted in the doorway by a glowering Phineas Nigellus Black, fob watch in hand.

"You are late, Mr Holmes," he said coldly. "I trust that you have good news with which to make amends for your tardiness? Has the Codex been found?"

Holmes regarded the Headmaster thoughtfully. Phineas Nigellus Black's scowl deepened still further.

"You could say so," said Holmes at last. "That is to say, I have located Master Godfrey Easingwold – you will be relieved, no doubt, to learn that he is safe and well, and suffering from nothing worse than a bad case of chicken pox. He will no doubt need a long convalescence at home after his ordeal, but he is expected to make a full recovery. And now, Headmaster, despite the lateness of the hour, I must request a personal interview with you at once on a matter of great urgency."

"Out of the question!" snapped Black. "I am most displeased with you, Mr Holmes. Despite my better judgement, I hired you to return the Codex to Hogwarts, and despite the facilities I have placed at your disposal, this you have failed to do. Plainly, reports of your powers were greatly exaggerated. In short, I am most disinclined to humour any more of your fancies at present. At this hour, sir, we at Hogwarts are accustomed to take our evening repast, and I see no reason to alter the hallowed custom of centuries to suit your convenience. Any small matter you may wish to discuss with me can very well wait until ten o'clock tomorrow morning, when I _may_ find myself at leisure."

"Professor Black," said Holmes in tones of the deepest gravity, "pray believe me when I say that I do not make this request lightly; nonetheless it is essential if you wish to avert a very public scandal. I ask again: will you not consent to a private interview?"

"I shall see you tomorrow, sir, at ten," came the glacial reply. "That will be all."

"Very well," said my friend with a shrug, "then events must take their course – I have done all that I could. Come, Watson, we have just time for a glass of sherry before supper – the Headmaster's watch is a good two and a half minutes fast. I suspect it has been over-wound."

With that, Holmes squeezed past the Headmaster and into the antechamber. I followed, nothing with interest that the dialogue in the doorway had not gone unnoticed by the other members of staff, and that Black flinched and stood aside as my friend brushed against him on his way through the door.

Despite the excellence of the Hogwarts sherry, and the oxtail soup and poached salmon that followed it, I did not enjoy my meal. Holmes had attached himself to Binns as soon as the gong rang for supper, expressing a keen interest in their previous conversation that left that dusty young pedant stunned, delighted and only too eager to say anything that might be of the slightest assistance. In the meantime, I sat isolated at the far end of the high table, prey to the gloomiest forebodings, for I knew now that despite the fine food and convivial buzz of conversation, there was a black-hearted sorcerer lurking in our midst. Judging by his expression, Weaselby, who was sitting opposite me, shared my opinion: he scarcely touched his food, drumming his fingers on the table, a study in frustration and anxiety.

My other neighbour was Professor Llewellyn, a plump, elderly lady, clad in the deepest mourning, but whose kindly, apple-cheeked, dimpled face seemed better fitted for mirth than sorrow. Plainly still deeply affected by the recent tragedy (her eyes filled with tears when I condoled with her on her loss), she soon rallied enough to thank Holmes and me most graciously for our efforts on her student's behalf. A few minutes were enough to demonstrate that her reputation for popularity was well deserved: Weaselby's frown faded after a minute's conversation with her, O'Connell came as close to relaxed in her presence as I had ever seen him, and even the Headmaster so far unbent to address her cordially as "dear Cousin Richenda", a wintry smile briefly illuminating his gaunt features.

Holmes's voice rang out loud in a lull in the conversation.

"My dear Binns, nobody could have explained the spell with greater clarity, I assure you!" he declared. "The fault is mine entirely: I have no experience of these matters, and I simply cannot envisage what you are trying to explain. Might I beg you the great favour of a practical demonstration?"

"A _practical demonstration_?" said Binns dubiously in his papery voice. "Dear me, that is highly unorthodox, but perhaps in this case… do you really believe that it would be of assistance?"

"I am certain of it," replied Holmes. "One small demonstration from you and your entire argument will spring to vivid life in front of my eyes! Pray do consider it - the expense of time and effort would be trivial for a wizard of your power, I'm sure."

"That is all very well," replied Binns, his face a picture of vacillation and uncertainty, "but the spell in question requires a second wand…"

"That need not be an obstacle," my friend replied briskly. "Observe, I have even come prepared with a wand – I stumbled across this one in the course of my investigation. Do honour me with a demonstration, most excellent Binns – I am convinced that no further explanation will be required."

With these words, he removed a small ivory-coloured stick from the pocket of his dinner jacket, and passed it to Binns, who took it in his left hand, drew out his own wand and pointed it at the other.

At the very moment that Binns raised his wand and uttered the words "_Priori Incantatem"_, Phineas Nigellus Black leapt to his feet, crying:

"That's my wand! You thief, you've stolen my wand!"

The silence in the Great Hall was absolute, as every eye turned to the High Table, and the pale wand clutched in Binns's trembling hand. A shower of yellow sparks burst from the end, only to be sucked away into nothingness as water falls down a drain; then came a musical chime and a series of bright lights. For a second it seemed that the wand had told us all that it could, but then I noticed a faint mist seeping from the tip, which grew in brightness and intensity and slowly coalesced to form a human figure. Soon the image gained greater definition and I recognised the face of Godfrey Easingwold, a vacuous smile most oddly imposed on his serious young features, climbing the narrow spiral staircase that led to the Codex Chamber. The higher he climbed, the more reluctant he seemed to proceed, and the more unnatural and rictus-like the smile became. Several times he turned back, and on each occasion more white light poured into his body, causing him to writhe and shudder until he resumed his course, and by the time he reached the Codex Chamber the light cast by the ghostly figure outshone the candles of the Great Hall. When the boy approached the chest where the Codex lay, the struggle intensified once more, and yet more light poured into his body until it was almost painful to look upon, before, sweat pouring down his face, he took the crowbar in his hands. Twice he brought it to bear on the lock, and twice his will prevailed at the last minute and he left no more than a scratch, but the third time was too much for him, and weeping with despair, he forced the crowbar upwards with all his strength. The lock gave, and in a second the Codex was in his hands. In an agony of remorse, the youth cast his wand on the floor, and at that point some last effort of will must have broken the chains of enchantment binding him, for his image burst into a thousand dazzling fragments, leaving nothing but darkness and silence.

The silence was broken by the stentorian voice of Professor Drummond, as he sprang to his feet in a shower of gravy and cutlery.

"You unspeakable swine, Black!" he bellowed, face purple with righteous fury. "Use the Imperius curse on a defenceless student, would you? I'll see you in Azkaban for this, you blackguard, or my name's not Enobarbus Drummond!"

"Oh, poor Godfrey – the Imperius curse – a mere child!" gasped Professor Blenkinsop, her face blanched with shock. "For shame, sir – for shame!"

"Hush, Drummond, there's a good fellow," said Professor O'Connell, placing a restraining hand on Drummond's sleeve. "_Pas devant les enfants,_ Professor Blenkinsop! Professor Black has a _great deal_ of explaining to do," this with a hard look at the Headmaster, who returned his gaze stonily, "but we must not permit the situation to descend into anarchy. I suggest that we withdraw to the staffroom and listen to his excuses in private – if there can be any excuse for such behaviour."

"I have no reason to excuse myself in the face of this rank insubordination," said Black, face and voice as hard as granite, "but I will withdraw, since you wish it."

With those words he drew his robes close around him and swept from the hall, followed by the rest of the High Table.

Behind us, the Great Hall exploded into uproar.

TO BE CONTINUED


	12. Chapter 12 A Conspiracy Unmasked

**Chapter Twelve: A Conspiracy Unmasked**

The staff room was a sombre, panelled chamber, dominated by a round table and heavy carved chairs of bog-oak. One chair, facing the door, was heavier and more elaborate in design than the others, and it was in this that Phineas Nigellus Black took up his station, staring down the room at his staff with a look of haughty disdain. More hesitantly, the rest of the company took their places around the table, though I noticed that all of them avoided the chairs nearest to Black.

"Well, Headmaster?" said Drummond when they were all seated. "It seems to me that you have been caught red-handed. What is your explanation for this diabolical behaviour?"

"When has a headmaster of Hogwarts, oldest and most glorious school in the land, submitted to questioning by underlings?" retorted Black imperiously. "I have nothing to say to you, sir, when you address me in that tone."

"Then I shall supply an explanation," replied Holmes. "Or rather, I shall supply the facts of the case, for I consider your behaviour to be inexcusable – though of course, not having had the advantages of a wizarding education, it is possible that I have failed to appreciate some of the _moral _niceties of the case."

"Well, I for one am far from convinced," said Professor Llewellyn. "Why would a member of the richest and most powerful wizarding family in the land, and Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry besides, resort to black magic to dupe a student into theft? The Headmaster has access to every room in the castle – if he wished to consult the Codex he could have done so quite openly any at hour of the day or night. And if money was an object, both his family home and the Headmaster's study contain many items of far greater monetary value. No, Mr Holmes, I will require more proof than this."

"Reasoned like a true Ravenclaw, madam!" exclaimed Holmes. "Your logic is impeccable – but it is based on a faulty assumption. Black never wanted the Codex for himself, and he had no need of money. His true motives were far darker and more deadly.

"The truly wealthy care nothing for money, no more than you or I care for the air we breathe or the ground we walk upon. Their kind finds other preoccupations to bring meaning to their days, and the traditional Black family obsession has always been purity of blood. The powers that magical folk possess ensure that they need never want for life's basic necessities, but pure blood is beyond price, belonging only to a special, favoured few. Of course, people with no magical blood whatsoever frequently come to magic, and many of these newcomers have proved most competent and worthy wizards, but in the eyes of Black and his like they were a different order of humanity: excellent sergeants but never to be trusted with a commission – at best negligible quantities and at worst dangerous upstarts.

"When Black first came to Hogwarts, teaching positions were reserved, as of right, for the oldest families, a situation that suited him very well. However, when change is in the air, not even a school as isolated as Hogwarts can hope to avoid it altogether, and as the years passed, a more progressive element began to emerge. Though all of the best wizarding stock themselves, some of the teachers began to cultivate protégés among the newcomers, opening new doors for people who could previously have hoped to rise no higher than tradesmen, clerks, private tutors or upper servants. There was talk of posts at Hogwarts – and in some cases, this talk even became reality, though for some _mysterious_ reason," (this with a very piercing look at Black, who returned his gaze expressionlessly) "none of these upstarts ever lasted very long. Eventually, rumours of a curse began to circulate, and those you call by the whimsical name of 'mudbloods' learned to channel their talents in other, less risky directions.

"Then Godfrey Easingwold came to Hogwarts. This excellent young man was unusually gifted, intelligent and popular, and he seemed set to sweep all before him. By the time Headmaster Black (who is not over fond of children, and often takes considerable pains to avoid them) became aware of his existence, young Easingwold was already a rising star at Hogwarts. In the course of the next few years, due to a chain of circumstances that reflect as much on the utter unsuitability of all that year's pure-blooded candidates as on his own merits, it quickly became clear that, short of a miracle, the one remaining honour that had previously been the sole prerogative of purebloods was within his grasp: Godfrey Easingwold was to be made Head Boy. To Black, this was intolerable. Easingwold must be disposed of – and he must leave in disgrace, lest any who followed after should wish to make a martyr of him.

"While it pains me to admit that my own society has yet to completely fling off the shackles of class and blood, it is hard for those of us outside the Wizarding world to understand the depths to which Black was driven by his blood pride and affection for the _status quo_. Nonetheless, he was so driven. The evidence speaks for itself. While Godfrey Easingwold was triumphing in every aspect of his magical education, the man in whose care he had been placed was plotting his downfall – and a very neat little plot it was, if I may say so, showing surprising sophistication for a wizard.

"At some point, Black must have learned that Easingwold's father was an antiquarian bookseller, and the seed of a clever (if elementary) scheme began to germinate in his mind. What better way to blacken the name of a bookseller's son than to arrange for him to be caught stealing Hogwarts' most treasured book? Easingwold would be induced to take the Codex, and a Muggle specialist would be called in to confirm his guilt in this most Muggle of crimes, so that if any questioned his that young Easingwold had done the deed, the evidence would be so black against him that not even his most fervent partisan could have anything to say in his defence.

"The fact that Godfrey Easingwold is a dutiful young man of regular habits only made Black's task easier. The night the Codex was taken, Black entered Ravenclaw Tower by way of the fireplace outside the Codex Chamber, where he lay in wait for Easingwold to pass on his rounds. There was a slight delay, and the signs of impatience were still plainly to be read the day we came here, from the purple scuff-marks which those extraordinary boots Black chooses to affect had left on the skirting board. Eventually the unfortunate youth appeared on his nightly rounds, and walked straight into the trap. Black cast the Imperius curse on him from behind, and, with considerable difficulty, prevailed upon him to take the Codex from its chest and run off into the night, to live or die as he would. Since the only possible hiding place was the Forbidden Forest, death would, in fact, have been the likelier outcome, but for the good offices of the caretaker Goyle.

"It now wanted only a Muggle detective to complete the case against the unfortunate young man, and it was at this point that Black made his first serious miscalculation. A man who wished for a shoddy job left half-done and no awkward questions would have done far better to enlist the help of Scotland Yard, but Black's family pride would never have allowed him to set foot in a Muggle police station – and so Weaselby was dispatched to Baker Street. At the time he was eager enough to avail himself of my services, for like many of his kind, Black has been accustomed to equate lack of magical ability (of which I am proud to say I have none) with stupidity, but it did not take him long to learn his mistake. Once we arrived at Hogwarts and he had a chance to see me in action, he proved a most distant and unhelpful client – suspiciously so, in fact, for he set his cleaning staff to remove all traces of anything save what he wished me to see from the Codex chamber, and other areas of Ravenclaw tower had been tampered with as well.

"As my faithful chronicler Watson will tell you, I have substantial experience of criminal investigation, and little that the criminal mind can produce is capable of surprising me now. It happens from time to time that a client (usually one with an elevated estimation of his powers and pretensions to social superiority) requests my services to clear him of a crime that he in fact committed himself, believing himself to have built up an impregnable case against some innocent victim. How many is it now, Watson?"

"Twenty-three, I believe," I replied, observing with delight the look of pure chagrin that crossed Black's features, "twenty-four if you count the Case of the Absent Stag Beetle – but that, of course, is hardly fit for the world at large…"

"Indeed, no," said Holmes hurriedly, "let us hear no more of _that _sordid little affair, I beg! Be that as it may, I had seen enough of criminals of Black's type to be prepared for such an eventuality in this case, and when I discovered that Easingwold had made no preparations for his abrupt departure from Hogwarts my suspicions were strengthened. Shortly after that I learned from another source, which there is no need to name here, that Godfrey Easingwold was still in hiding in the grounds of Hogwarts. My companions and I tracked him down, and I had the whole sorry story from his own lips. At this point I must express my thanks the estimable Professor Binns for his most _complete_ account of the illegal curses of the wizarding world – a very nasty little set indeed, I might add – for in the light of this knowledge it was plain that poor Easingwold had fallen victim to the _Imperius_ curse. It remained only to bring the proof before the public, which I did by relieving the Headmaster of his wand as I brushed past him on my way into the staffroom, and then employing a little mild subterfuge to persuade Binns to cast the _Priori Incantatem_ charm upon it. The rest you know. One question only remains. You have the facts: now can the staff of Hogwarts be trusted to see to it that justice is done?

Deadly silence reigned all around the table. Finally Professor O'Connell cleared his throat.

"Well, Headmaster," he said at last, "the case against you seems tolerably complete. What have you to say in your defence?"

"In my _defence_?" said Black in a voice that chilled me to the marrow. "I absolutely decline, sir, to defend myself any accusations levelled at me by such a one as _this_. What – must Phineas Nigellus Black, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, scion of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, answer to this _creature_? Must I, descendent of the greatest sorcerers to walk this earth, give an account of my actions to this ape that speaks with a man's voice, this ignorant Muggle who knows nothing of our traditions and ways, of our ancient pride – one not only born blind and deaf to the gift of magic but who, by his own admission, takes a perverse pride in the fact? No, sir, we have fallen low indeed at Hogwarts, shamefully so, if I must make excuses for ridding its sacred precincts of the threat that was hanging over it, but Phineas Nigellus Black will never stoop so low as that!"

At this Professor Weaselby rose to his feet, his face livid with anger.

"You should answer, sir, to your own conscience!" he exclaimed. "You speak of a threat – I speak of a _child_ – an innocent placed in your care whose trust you foully abused. You have brought shame on Hogwarts, and upon us all!"

Professor Llewellyn was staring at Black as though she had never seen him before. Her eyes were swimming with tears, and for the first time that evening I saw her as she truly was: an aging woman in deep mourning, staggering under a blow that had left her reeling.

"Oh, Cousin Phineas!" she moaned, "how _could _you! That poor boy! How can we ever hope to make amends for this? And whatever possessed you to do this wicked thing? I have known your pride since we played together as children, but I would never have believed you capable of such wanton cruelty."

Black recoiled as if she had struck him, and for a second his face softened, but before he could speak Professor Drummond brought his fist crashing down on the table.

"Enough of this!" he cried. "What more do we need? This fellow's place is in the dock, and I, for one, will take great pleasure in seeing him there!"

"What?" cried Black, outraged. "The nerve of the fellow! _You_ speak to _me_ of the dock – after Guyana?"

Although the significance of this remark was lost on me, it provoked a violent reaction among all present, and what dignity the staff of Hogwarts had managed to retain was quickly lost as the meeting descended into uproar. Holmes and I watched in growing dismay as strong words were exchanged, fists shaken and wands drawn. It was at this point that I felt a gentle tug at my sleeve.

"Doctor Watson," said Professor O'Connell quietly, "I believe now might be a good time for you and Mr Holmes to leave, while you are unobserved. If you would be good enough to follow me?"

TO BE CONTINUED


	13. Chapter 13 Farewell Gifts

**Chapter Thirteen: Farewell Gifts**

Professor O'Connell led us down a narrow, winding corridor and out into the main entrance hall, where we came to a halt.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I apologise for our abrupt departure. You will forgive me, I hope, when I explain that our good Headmaster is a man of deeply vengeful temperament, and moreover sadly prone to the use of Memory Charms on those who know that which, in his opinion, they should not. You have seen the Headmaster at a most profound moral disadvantage, and, had you waited until his temper cooled, you would have left that room with no memory of what had passed. You might never have recovered from the shock. I confess that this would grieve me: I have far too much respect of intellectual and literary talent to take any pleasure in seeing it squandered in such a wasteful fashion."

"Indeed," said Holmes blandly, "you need say no more, for I am no stranger to the depredations of friend Black. I am sure Watson would agree with me when I say that we would both very much prefer to leave this place with our faculties intact. And now, how do you propose to get us back to London undetected? I am a match for any wizard on my own home ground, but we can hardly hope to survive the Hogwarts Express unmolested."

"You need have no fear on that score," replied O'Connell, "I have taken the liberty of ordering a small conveyance to be made ready and your bags to be packed, together with provisions for your journey. As you say, Hogsmeade station is unsafe, and (as you know very well, I suspect) the last train of the day has already left. I suggest that you make your way instead to the railhead at Inverhogg on the far side of the lake, where you should be in time for the Muggle night mail to Aberdeen. By the time my respected colleagues pause to take stock you should be well on your way to London. Weaselby will drive you – he is a good fellow, but dreadfully hot-headed, and if he continues in Black's company for much longer I fear that he will find he has made his position here quite untenable."

"But surely," I interrupted, "he has nothing to fear from Professor Black _now_? He can scarcely remain in charge at Hogwarts after his infamy has been laid bare in so public fashion!"

Holmes shot a me pitying glance. O'Connell merely smiled and shook his head.

"My dear Doctor," he said with a smile that did not quite reach his curious pale eyes, "your faith in human nature does you credit, it warms my heart to see it! However, in this case it is sadly misplaced. You forget that Professor Black is a senior member of one of the oldest and most powerful wizarding families in the land, a family that will stop at nothing to uphold the family name. We at this school may deplore what he has done with every fibre of our being, but the power to remove the Headmaster lies with the Board of Governors, and they are a set for whom blood holds all the importance that Black himself places on it. No, they will argue back and forth, and some few will stand with us, but blood will out, my dear Doctor, blood will out! Black's dignity will be sorely ruffled, and he will receive a severe reprimand, but he will remain Headmaster of Hogwarts, and the rest of the staff will find themselves forced to reconsider their positions. Drummond will rant and roar and pound the table, but the Black family holds the mortgages to his family's lands. Richenda Llewellyn has finally seen 'dear cousin Phineas' for what he is, but she has now very little immediate family left, and I do not believe that she will be able to cast him off altogether. Binns is a Black himself by marriage, Weaselby has an elderly mother to support... No, Doctor Watson, there can be no doubt – Black will remain to plague us at Hogwarts for some years yet."

"Great heavens!" I cried, thunderstruck. "Surely this is some kind of joke!"

"No joke," replied O'Connell, "I speak as a student of the noble art of Divination, and as Head of the House that places manipulation and survival within the established order above all other considerations. Believe me, Doctor, there can be no possible doubt: Black will remain Headmaster at Hogwarts."

"But this is monstrous!" I gasped. "A man little better than a murderer, left unwatched in charge of a school of these delightful children? Shameful, sir, shameful!"

"Alone, but never unwatched!" exclaimed O'Connell, "for at last Black has been exposed for what he truly is! As long as he remains at Hogwarts every eye will be on him: the very portraits on the walls and the ghosts who haunt the castle will be watching him, day and night! You may set your mind at rest, Doctor: Easingwold and all the others who will follow after him will be quite safe."

"In short," said Holmes, "it seems that you have skewered friend Black very neatly. One thing still puzzles me, however. Why now? Why watch in silence as your colleague plots to dispose of your most worthy student, only to leap to that same student's defence when the plot is discovered by an outside agency?"

"The sorting hat chose wisely, Mr Holmes, when it placed you in Ravenclaw house!" said O'Connell. "In true Ravenclaw fashion, you have struck to the very heart of the issue, yet you take no account of the society in which we must work to achieve our ends! We in Slytherin, however, are creatures of the real world, and keen students of _realpolitik. _We live within the established order, and we honour its codes, for we know that these were the paths that led our ancestors to greatness, and by following them, we may achieve greatness in our turn. However, it sometimes happens that this order is threatened not without, but from within – and then we are ruthless in cutting out the dead wood, so the tree may flourish unchecked.

"You may not believe it, but not all wizards are as ignorant of the Muggle world as our blinkered Black. For many years now, I have myself taken a keen interest in your world and its politics, for they hold up a mirror to our own. A wind of change is blowing through Europe! In the last half century, reform and revolution have swept the continent: we have seen the old order falter and come crashing down. A far-sighted, well-run government may weather the blast, but the weak, blinkered and stubborn will be swept away. Black and his kind will never accept one fundamental truth, which is that the same wind that blows through Muggle London blows also on the Wizarding world. Reform is in the air, and those same people who submitted meekly to the injustices of Black and his kind a generation ago will be roused to righteous anger against them today. Can our Wizarding society survive a revolution? I do not know, but why take the risk? Better by far to reform from within, giving measured concessions to the deserving so that the old order may continue. We do not wish to overthrow our leaders, but if Black stands in the path of progress then he will be crushed beneath its wheels.

"But here is Goyle with the carriage. Pray make yourselves comfortable inside: our stalwart caretaker will see that no harm comes to you while I fetch Weaselby."

With that, O'Connell handed us into the carriage, and sprang up the steps leading back towards the school.

My friend Sherlock Holmes has no mean share of personal vanity, but the complete transformation of Goyle's manner since Godfrey Easingwold's departure left even Holmes decidedly nonplussed: Goyle's previous belligerence was now transformed into abject gratitude that bordered on worship. When he was not expressing his thanks in a manner that would have made the most empty-headed society beauty blush, he was brandishing an outsize blunderbuss in a most alarming manner, as if daring some imagined aggressor to approach.

Soon, however, O'Connell returned, followed by Weaselby in a shabby travelling cloak and top hat. As Weaselby climbed up to the driver's seat and prepared to take up the reins, O'Connell leaned in through the windows of the carriage and addressed my friend in a confidential tone.

"I trust you will not think me rude, Mr Holmes," he said, as he passed a small packet and a wash-leather bag that clinked as it moved through the open window, "if I take this opportunity to settle the bill for your services, for I do not know when we will next meet again."

"And the papers?" enquired my friend.

"Oh, the merest trifle," replied the other. "Just a few old school magazines and similar records which I put together, knowing that you had a brother at Hogwarts, and thinking that they might be of some… _interest_ to you."

Holmes became very still. When he raised his head, his deep-set eyes burned with an almost maniacal fervour.

"So you know!" he said quietly.

"Know?" said O'Connell, with a wave of his hand. "I _know_ nothing, Mr Holmes: as a wise man once said, it is a capital mistake to theorise ahead of one's data, and data are sadly lacking in this case. I merely _suspect_ – and what are the suspicions of one lone Irishman worth? Yet we at Hogwarts owe you a great debt – and I for one would consider it an honour to repay that debt in the currency that will suit you best: information. Read my collection of mementoes, speak to Weaselby (for Marchmont Holmes was good to Weaselby when he first came to Hogwarts, and I know that he is afire to share all his childhood reminiscences with you). If I can assist in any way, a letter addressed to Morris Gerald O'Connell at the Leaky Cauldron inn off the Charing Cross Road will always find me."

"I am most sensible of this honour," said Holmes slowly, fixing his interlocutor with a penetrating gaze. "But I confess that I do not see the motives behind it. Your people are almost offensively shy of mine: are you not afraid that I will track you down in your hiding places and trouble your peace with my investigations?"

"No, Mr Holmes," said O'Connell with a smile. "You have proved yourself too much a man of honour for that – besides, even if you wished to betray our secrets, who in _your_ world would believe a word of your story? But there is more.

"You have little reason to think well of wizards, Mr Holmes, I know – but be assured that not all of us are blinkered philistines like Phineas Nigellus Black. Some of us rejoice in our connection with the Muggle world, believing fervently that our best and ultimate destiny is to live in harmony with them. I am one such: I believe that our future lies together, not apart, and I live for the day when we wizards live side by side with our Muggle brothers and sisters, and all concealment and deceit between us is at an end.

"But enough of that! Time waits for no man, and you have a train to catch. Gentlemen, I wish you a pleasant journey. Drive on, Weaselby!"

Weaselby shook the reins of the strangely muffled beasts harnessed to our conveyance, and the carriage began to move.

Holmes watched O'Connell's diminishing form until he was lost to sight round a bend in the road, and then he fell into an introspective silence. For my part, I was happy to take in the delightful scenery on both sides of the road until the gathering dusk and the mist that rose from the lake obscured it altogether, at which point I fell into a gentle doze. Then my friend suddenly rose from his seat and pushed down the carriage window.

"Stop a minute, Weaselby!" he cried in his imperious fashion. "The atmosphere in this carriage is abominably close, and Watson here snores fit to wake the dead. I require fresh air, for a stagnant atmosphere is death to the brain. If you have no objection, I believe I will join you on the driver's seat for a spell."

And with that, he opened the door and clambered up beside Weaselby.

I fell asleep to the sound of their earnest conversation.

TO BE CONTINUED


	14. Epilogue: Homeward Bound

_**Epilogue: Homeward Bound**_

The great Aberdeen-London express had left the soaring mountains of the Scottish Highlands far behind, and was racing through the rolling hills of Fife, where the corn stood tall and golden in the late summer sun. We were perhaps half an hour short of Edinburgh when Holmes stirred and woke from his slumber, scatting the papers that had piled up about him like drifted snow.

"Well, Watson," he said, indicating my notebook, "I see you have wasted no time in chronicling our latest adventure. I am glad that you consider the subject a worthy one."

"A most worthy tale indeed!" I exclaimed. "I would not have missed it for the world! I only doubt my powers to do the subject justice!"

Holmes chuckled.

"On the contrary, my friend," he said with a smile, "I can think of no story better adapted to your powers of sensationalism and melodrama. The tale is overblown, the villain grotesque, the young man at the centre of the story most dreadfully wronged… in short, to entrust this story to any other hands would be criminal."

"It's a fine story, and I really believe I can make something truly splendid out of it," I replied. "But it is not quite finished yet. For what has become of the Ravenclaw Codex?"

"Oh, as to that," said Holmes in that offhand way that I knew so well, "the Ravenclaw Codex is currently in the possession of Godfrey Easingwold, ironically enough. He would have handed it over on the spot, I believe, but I was not quite easy in my mind about his security in London, and in the end I persuaded him to take it with him as a guarantee of safety. So long as Black and his minions leave the lad to recover in peace, the Ravenclaw Codex will return with Easingwold to Hogwarts. However, should Black cause any member of the Easingwold family – or their guests – so much as a moment's worry or inconvenience, Easingwold or one of his companions will convey the Codex secretly to the Reading Room of the British Museum – for I think I may safely say that Black and his like would never venture _there_. There it will be held in a place of honour, where the finest scholars in the world may come to learn from it, and delight in it. You might argue, indeed, that it will have come home at last, to be cared for by the _true_ heirs of Rowena Ravenclaw – she who loved wit and learning above all things."

"Bravo, Holmes!" I exclaimed. "I cannot think of a more worthy fate for that noble tome! But even so, the story is not quite at an end. What of Weaselby's tale? Of O'Connell's papers? Will their testimonies enable you to put an end once and for all to the machinations of the sinister Black?"

Holmes's face darkened.

"Weaselby's tale," he said after a pause, "was of little practical use, for all that I rejoiced to hear it, and learned much that will gladden the heart of brother Mycroft. Weaselby loved my brother dearly for his kindness when he first came to Hogwarts as a penniless and friendless (if pureblooded) child. However, Weaselby is not gifted with any great powers of observation or memory, and he can shed little light on the case itself. I have more hope, strangely, of O'Connell's papers. One can never fully trust the motives of a man of that sort, but there are little, indirect clues contained in those papers that may yet carry me a long way towards my goal. And if that is not far enough, well, I must resort to other means!" A fierce light came into his eyes, such as I had not seen since his final encounter with the late Professor Moriarty. "For men like Black are a pollution that both blight the world of wizards and, worse, spread their pestilence into ours – and I intend to put a stop to it, no matter how heavy the cost or how long it takes! If I could but free the world of Black's malign influence, I truly believe that I would go to my grave a happy man.

"But enough of that. My poor Watson, you are looking quite done up. The air in these magical institutions can have a noxious affect on the unprepared, and in any case it would be the height of folly to return directly to London. O'Connell's fair words and promises are all well and good, but they do not go quite far enough for me. I believe we would do well to alight at Newcastle or thereabouts, and make for the coast. The climate and scenery are, I believe, excellent at this time of year, and you will have ample time to take the sea air and compile your notes, while I subject O'Connell's papers to a really thorough examination. Oh, and I would recommend that you make at least one extra copy of your record, and secrete it in a safe place before our departure: one can never be too careful when dealing with these people."

"But Holmes," I exclaimed, "surely you do not mean to suggest that Black and his cohorts will fall on us unawares and take our memories from us, in spite of all you have done?"

Holmes considered this for a movement.

"It is possible, I suppose, but unlikely," he said. "Once Black's behaviour becomes common knowledge among wizards (as it inevitably will), he will hardly be able to move against us directly – and even if he did, my behaviour when I left London was so eccentric that I expect to be pestered with questions on the subject for months: I feel quite certain that one or the other of the clues I left in the course of our journey to the station would be bound to jog my memory sooner or later – those that were not secret messages to Mycroft. It does not pay to leave such matters to chance, that is all.

"But perhaps I am giving the man too much credit," he continued as our train slowed slightly in preparation to cross the Forth Bridge. "For what, after all, are the works of wizards, compared to what we have achieved here? Look, Watson!" he cried, gesturing towards the struts and spars of the towering, iron-red structure as they flashed past the windows of our carriage, "_there's _a miracle, if you like; there's a subject worthy for the history books; there's a fitting use of human talent and ingenuity! Why fear Black and his like when the future belongs to us? No wizard could build such a bridge, or the Crystal Palace, or Eiffel's tower in Paris; no wizard could invent the telegraph, or the smallpox vaccination, or the steam engine: why, the very train we took to Hogwarts is copied from a Muggle design! So long as we have science at our command, our future will contain miracles that will make the very best that Black can offer seem like the tawdriest of music-hall performers.

"But for now, let us turn to more pleasant matters. On our departure, O'Connell was kind enough to furnish us with a most splendid picnic, including a selection of bottles that appear to have been purloined from friend Black's special cellar. It is perhaps a little early in the day, but you and I have no need to stand on ceremony. Can I tempt you to a dram of whisky? Or perhaps a little of this rather unusual cognac?"

THE END


End file.
